If Only…
by S. Faith
Summary: The most seemingly insignificant decisions can be the pivot point upon which a life turns, and what might have otherwise been can still affect you deeply. MATB, AU: What if Mark hadn't been in that vehicle?
1. Chapter 1: A Close Call

**If Only…**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 34,644 in six chapters and an epilogue  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary: The most seemingly insignificant decisions can be the pivot point upon which a life turns… and what might have otherwise been can still affect you deeply.  
Disclaimer: Last I checked, still isn't mine.

Notes: Because I think he might have waited to make that call, and so I choose to believe that he did.

Also takes place before and during the events of _Mad About the Boy_.

* * *

**Chapter 1: A Close Call**

___Like a million little doorways  
All the choices we made  
All the stages we passed through  
All the roles we played_

For so many different directions  
Our separate paths might have turned  
With every door that we opened  
Every bridge that we burned

_—Rush, "Ghost of a Chance"_

…

_2008_

He thought about her a lot. He wanted to see her again soon.

_Not going to happen, though_, he thought. _Not until this business is done_.

He glanced at his watch; with the time difference, he would have to give it at least a couple of more hours before he tried to call. If he could even get a connection, which could be notoriously bad.

"Hey, we've got to get on the road within the hour. You going to be ready to go then?"

He thought about it, thought about the call he wanted to make; no harm in getting the long journey going. He probably wouldn't even be able to get a call out, and he might have better luck in Khartoum upon their arrival. Then again…

"Actually," he said to his colleague Anton, "I think I'll stay behind here. At least for a little bit longer."

"Stay?" Anton asked. "Why?"

"This may seem a bit silly," he said, "but… well. Let's just say there's a very important phone call I want to try to make before I hit the road."

"It can't wait until we get there?"

"It's one of those things… the earlier in the day in London… the better."

Anton grinned. "Oh, _her_. Well. I bet the foreign press chaps could get you to Khartoum."

When he finally did get that phone call made, much later than he'd anticipated, the first thing out of his mouth was, "She saved my life."

…

The aftermath, the scrapping of his remaining duties in favour of abruptly arranged (and inordinately rough) air travel out of the country from Khartoum to Cairo, had not afforded him much time to think about the events surrounding his departure from Darfur. Now, in the comfort of first class on the plane back to London, it was a bit easier to sit and reflect on what had occurred over the last few days. Still so fresh in mind, still so deeply unsettling. If only it had been any other day… if only he had left with Anton as originally planned…

He took another long draw off of his gin and tonic. _It does no good to dwell on the 'if onlys',_ he thought. He was deeply grieved, but he felt grateful, and (perhaps not surprisingly) a little guilty.

Earlier that day, when he'd tried to place his call, he had been unable to secure a connection, and so resigned himself to trying again in Khartoum, then joined up for the transport with the foreign press crew as he'd previously arranged. On the advice of a local man that these folks had known for years and trusted, they had taken a slightly different route into Khartoum, one that this man had assured was cleared and was safe. As they got closer to their destination, scattered, almost panicked fragments of information began to come across the radio, the barest hints of what had happened parcelled greedily to them due to the terrible reception, the rapid language; the mention of landmines had sent the first icy tendrils into the pit of his stomach. When he reached Khartoum to find that Anton had never made the rendezvous, he became genuinely afraid.

Shortly after their arrival, the full report reached them. A thick black plume of smoke rising up from the desert landscape had drawn the attention of locals, which brought in investigators, who radioed it in to the authorities.

Landmine. The armoured vehicle had been no match for it. The vehicle's number plate, Anton's number plate, had been recovered a distance away; so far away, in fact, that the officials considered themselves lucky to have found it. The press were tentatively claiming two fatalities—Anton and himself—which made contacting her that much more urgent. No one knew that he hadn't been in the armoured vehicle. Authorities would reach out to her as next of kin. He had to get through to her first.

His first words to her had been—

_Stop thinking about it_, he thought, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He raised his tumbler again, only to find he'd drained the glass dry. He rang for the attendant.

"Yes, sir?" The same courteous young woman who had served the cabin for the whole flight; Amani (read her name tag), with her kind, dark eyes and gentle smile.

"I was wondering if I might have another," he said, indicating his empty glass.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we are preparing for the descent shortly," she said.

Even though he knew taking solace in a cocktail wasn't the way to go, he felt deflated.

"Are you all right, sir?"

He chuckled mirthlessly. "Narrowly escaped being blown to bits by a landmine," he said, "but otherwise, I'm just fine."

She frowned a little, and then, after a beat, she leaned down. "If ever a rule needed bending…" she began, then smiled sympathetically. "I'll return presently."

Amani was as good as her word. He tried not to knock back the proffered drink too quickly, but he could only think how very grateful he would be to be back in London, with—

The chime of the announcement interrupted his thoughts. The surge of adrenaline brought about a near-instantaneous sobriety.

He was almost home.

…

It was well past midnight when he turned the key in the lock, swung open the door of his house, the home he shared with her; the sound of the creaky hinge seemed ten times louder than it probably was. _I'll have to see about fixing that_, he thought, setting his bag down on the floor, and feeling unexpectedly happy that he could actually do it. He closed the door to let the silence of the dark house engulf him.

He reached for the little lamp on the table in the foyer, which sent out a meagre amber light. Due to unforeseen delays in arrivals, it was much later than he had originally expected to arrive home, and he'd had no way to reach her en route, so he had just decided to come directly home and hope she'd been monitoring the flight status online. He looked down at the silver tray next to the lamp, her keys next to his, and he smiled.

"Oh my God," came the awed whisper from down the hall. "Oh my _God_."

Then out of the darkness she came, her dressing gown fluttering out behind her as she ran; as her body met his, she threw her arms around him, her tears dampening his skin, her sobbing racking her entire body. He too began to weep, holding her close to him, stroking her hair, kissing her head, assuring her that he really was home.

"You are never, ever to leave us again, Mark Darcy," she said throatily between great, hiccoughing sobs. "Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly," he said, then pulled back enough to kiss her full on the lips. "Bridget. You are…" _A sight for sore eyes; a balm for the soul_… he didn't finish his sentence, but it didn't seem he needed to. She reached up, placed one hand on each side of his face, and kissed him again before burying herself into the side of his neck.

"I love you," she said to him, "but…"

"But?" he prompted.

"But…" She chuckled, then began to laugh a little in an almost hysterical fashion, as often occurs after disaster is averted and danger has passed. "But you could really use a bath," she finished; he pulled away, saw her crying and smiling at the same time.

This made him laugh too, but he then drew her close once more. "This is a little more important."

"Mm," she said, kissed him again. "I'll wash your back."

He was in no position to argue. "One thing I need to do, first."

"Oh," she said, understanding instantly. "Of course."

Together they went upstairs, where he found his little boy fast asleep in his room, and his little girl waking to greet him with a smile as he leaned over the bassinette in their bedroom.

"Mabel. My dearest princess," he said to greet her, "my life-saver…"

"And all at the tender age of three months old," Bridget said from beside him. "That's a tough act to follow in the years to come." He could not afford to bog himself down in the 'if onlys', but he could not help being extraordinarily grateful that he had chosen to delay departure to try to call to commemorate Mabel's third month on this planet.

He slipped his arm around his wife's waist, then allowed her to lead him into the en suite.

She drew for him a bath chock full of one of her bubbly concoctions—fortunately one that smelled more like vanilla than tea rose—and then did as promised, working tender circles into his back with a soapy flannel while he leaned forward, head in hands.

"I'm sorry about Anton," she said quietly. "I only chatted with him once or twice, but he seemed a nice fellow."

"Yes," he replied.

He felt her press a kiss into his damp hair. "I feel terrible for his family," she said. "And equally terrible for feeling so elated it wasn't you, too." She sighed. "If you hadn't gotten through to me first, I don't know what I would have done if someone had called to tell me you'd been killed."

He said nothing, because he couldn't find his voice; emotion choked his throat as the reality of it hit him once more. _So close_, he thought. _So close to death_.

Her arms went around him. "Sorry," she said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

He was about to ask what she meant, but realised he had begun to weep again. "It's all right," he managed. And it was.

…

As the sun rose and began to fill the room with pale light, Mark felt fortunate that he was not inundated with the discombobulating sensation of not knowing where he was. Home, in his own bed, with his wife of ten years beside him. What caused him to open his eyes, though, was the unnerving feeling that he was being watched.

He expected to see Bridget staring down at him with a smile playing upon her lips; instead, two inquisitive dark brown eyes were about three inches from his own face.

"Dada?" his small son asked.

He chuckled, bringing his arms up to take the boy into his embrace and pull him into a big hug. "It's me," he said, then kissed him in the head, curls tickling his nose.

He heard her voice echo down the hall in a harsh whisper as she approached. "Billy, I told you not to wake—oh, you're up."

"Yep," he said.

"He didn't—"

"He did, but I don't mind," he said, raising his gaze to her; she was holding a dozing Mabel. "One of the best ways to wake up, in my opinion. Seems to have inherited your special thought-vibe superpower." He then offered a wink.

He swore she blushed. "I've put the coffee on, and am more than happy to do a fry up for you."

The thought made his stomach loudly growl with hunger, which caused Billy to laugh raucously. This in turn startled the baby and set her off crying.

"Oh dear," said Bridget, looking down and attempting to tame the prodigious shock of baby-fine hair—as light a blonde as he'd ever seen—with her fingertips. She began to calm almost immediately. "Maybe Daddy would like to say hi?" she said, looking up to Mark.

He smiled broadly; he hadn't held her in nearly three weeks, since just before leaving for Africa. "Daddy would love that."

He held out his arms to take her from Bridget, and immediately could not resist smoothing down her wild hair. "Hello, Mabel," he said tenderly; she smiled and made a happy, cooing sound. "Ah," he said. "Music to my ears."

"You won't say that at two in the morning when she's shrieking for a nappy change."

"You're probably right," he said, "but you know what? Still thankful to be here to hear it."

At this, she shivered visibly. "Ooh," she said. "That was weird."

He stopped himself short of saying: _Someone's walking over my grave_.

…

Once the initial euphoria of Mark's safe return subsided, life returned to what it had been before his departure, if a little subdued. Bridget seemed to worry a bit more when he had to travel out of town for a day at a time. He assured her he would not be taking any more high-risk cases, at least ones for which he would have to travel to places issuing travel cautions.

And everything seemed fine, at least when he didn't think about it too much. More than one person, including Bridget, suggested he try counselling, so he did, but he didn't feel he got much out of it, and both he and the psychologist agreed it didn't seem to be a good use of his time. As the months went on, though, he felt a slowly building anxiety, one he was reluctant to share with anyone. One that caused him on several occasions to lock himself in the loo at work to calm his pulse, settle his breathing, avert a panic attack.

_Totally irrational_, he thought. Controlling it was merely a matter of willpower and reason; he would conquer it.

On the day of Mabel's first birthday, he felt a paralysis he hadn't known before, had to force himself out of bed (though her smiling face was ample reward). He realised it was because it was just before Mabel's birth that he'd been recruited to take the job in Sudan. That knowledge worked like a feedback loop, and in many ways actually seemed to help—the next episode wasn't for months afterwards, and few and far between after that.

When it happened he would think about ringing the psychologist again, but he would bargain with himself, telling himself that if it happened again within two or three days, he would definitely call. When it didn't, he felt relief.

He knew rationally that it wasn't true that it was a sign of weakness to admit you needed help, but he couldn't escape the feeling it was true, that it was a weakness, all the same.

…

_2009_

Time really seemed to fly. It seemed like just yesterday that they were signing Billy, then Mabel, up for school placement. Even Bridget expressed surprise that the day was approaching so quickly: "Can it really be he's starting Infant Branch already?"

"It's hard to believe," murmured Mark as, from his seat on the sofa, he looked at where Billy sat on the floor, stacking one block on top of another. He'd grown so much in the last year, Mark realised. He'd objected at first to the haircut Billy was sporting now—longer hair at the crown than before—but the length allowed the curls to spiral out a little more, and he found them quite endearing.

He then looked back to Bridget where she stood off to the side, and though she was trying hard to be cheery, he could see tears welling in her eyes. "We all knew the day would come, sooner rather than later," he said.

"But he's only three," she said.

"It's not like we're…" he began, left _sending him away_ unspoken.

She nodded, though. She understood. "I'll just miss him being here during the day."

Mark smiled, held his hand out to beckon her closer. "You say that now," he said, slipping his arm around her waist and grabbing her hip to pull her close to him. "But when you have peace and quiet writing your copy with no police siren imitations…"

She chuckled. "No, I'll just have Mabel's crazy babble to contend with."

"There is that," he said, chuckling too. He turned his head, nuzzling his cheek into her hip.

Just then he heard it: the slight wail that became louder and louder as their youngest child, aged twenty months, thundered closer. Bridget pulled away just as Mabel entered the room. Mabel's little cheeks were pink; she was out of breath, her brows drawn, her blonde hair wild about her head.

"Thaliva!" she said, startling Billy from his block-stacking.

Mark brought his hand to cover his mouth and laughter.

"I can't find her!" Mabel went on, her fists balled in frustration; Saliva was her favourite toy, a sweet little cloth doll that went with her everywhere, and one which was fortunately machine washable.

"Sweetheart," said Bridget, crouching down to her level. "I had to give Saliva a bath. She was frightfully dirty, but it's almost done, and you can have her back, okay?"

"Now?"

"Well, she has to dry first."

"Like Mummy with the dryer?"

At this Mark did laugh aloud. Occasionally when Bridget went to the office for a meeting, she would wrangle with her trusty old Salon Selectives (not the same one from all those years ago, of course) to give herself a blow dry. The last time she'd done this was under Mabel's careful eye.

"Sort of, yes," said Bridget. "So you'll just need a bit of patience. Are we understood?"

After a moment, Mabel nodded enthusiastically, her hair flopping about. She then said, very sombrely, "Yeth, Mummy. I'll play with you instead."

"Well," she said, a smirk on her lips, her eyes wide with surprise, looking to Mark with a 'can you believe this kid?' expression. "What shall we play, then?"

"Well, duh," Mabel said. "You be Thaliva."

"Mabel," Mark said, trying again to rein in his laugh and failing, "please don't say 'duh' to your mummy."

"Yes, Father," Mabel said solemnly, then looked back to Bridget. "Will you, Mummy? Be Thaliva?"

"I will endeavour to be the best Saliva I can be," Bridget said.

"Yay!" she exclaimed as she raised her arms to the sky, then ran back out of the room.

Bridget sighed. Billy looked to his father and grinned.

"So. You as Saliva," Mark said.

"Don't you smirk at me," said Bridget, pursing her lips. "Now, I must take on the role of a lifetime with my dear girl child." She then followed where Mabel had gone out of the room.

"Well," Mark said to Billy. "What shall you and I do?"

Billy thought a moment, then said brightly, "Can we go and watch Mummy be a dolly?"

"Yes," said Mark. "In fact, I think it is our duty."

They could not watch overtly, of course, so they stood outside the cracked-open door as Mabel did Bridget's hair into several sloppy plaits all over her head, and wrapped a variety of silk scarves from Bridget's closet around her neck and head. Just as the last one was draped over her head, she looked up and spotted Mark and Billy peering into the room.

Silently, he lifted his mobile and used the camera on it to snap a picture.

She mouthed the words, "I'll get you for that."

He mouthed back, "Looking forward."

…

_2012_

In March, almost four years after his brush with death, Bridget turned fifty. She'd insisted on not making a big deal of it—"Please, for the love of God, no big party," she'd said—but he had wanted to commemorate the landmark birthday with something special.

So he had arranged for Chloe, their part-time babysitter/nanny, to stay the weekend in the house to care for the children. He packed Bridget a bag of necessities, snuck them down to the car on Friday morning, told her they were going for a trip to the shops, and then just kept driving.

"Mark," she said with a laugh, "where _are_ we going?"

He said nothing, just threw a glance and a sly smile to where she sat in the passenger seat. Eventually he just said, "Not Tesco."

"So _mysterious_," she said with a big grin, then settled back for the ride. She trusted him enough to not question further; she had no reason to be uneasy or unsettled, to worry that he hadn't arranged things at home for the children.

When she realised the route was familiar to her, she began to laugh with tears of utter joy in her eyes as she guessed where they were going: Hintlesham Hall, where they had spent their very first night together. He'd even managed to secure the very same suite.

He carried her over the threshold. She giggled the entire time. But then he kissed her, kept kissing her, carried her straight to the bed to ravish her just as he had all those years ago.

_Sixteen years, three months_, he thought. Heading on to seventeen years together, and he still wanted her as much as ever. Perhaps he saw her more idealised than she was, but he thought it unlikely; he prided himself on how objective he'd remained about how well she had aged or how beautiful she still was. He was also not oblivious to the appreciative looks that she still drew from the men that passed her by.

They ate breakfast for dinner, lounged in bed some more, then took advantage of upgraded en suite—specifically, the large jet spa bathtub—before returning to the four-poster. It harkened back to the days of romantic pre-children (even pre-wedding) minibreaks, and while he wouldn't exchange his present life for anything in the world, he did like the seclusion, the time alone with her that he couldn't always get with the kids around.

Then, the morning, a long lie-in, lingering touches, gentle kisses and caresses. There was no schedule to the day. It had taken him a very long while to appreciate an unstructured period of time of rest and relaxation after the rigorous adherence to the structure of everything from boarding schools to practising law, but during the course of their relationship and marriage, she had turned his anxiety over this uncertainty into something to which he would look forward, a respite from the stress and seriousness of his profession.

That evening he did have a little chocolate torte with raspberry glazing on top sent up to the room after dinner; he sang a happy birthday song to her, did a little dance around the room with her, and then, after enjoying said cake with her, took her up into his arms again and said, "Best chance I ever took, bringing you here on Christmas Day."

She giggled then kissed him, but then he broke away.

"Oh, you don't get away that easily," he said with a grin. "Didn't really think I was going to let the day slip by without marking it in some way, did you?"

She gave him a sidelong glance, narrowing her gaze. "What do you mean by that, Mark Darcy?"

She always still used his full name when she was being serious; he offered only an enigmatic smile. He then held up his finger in a one-moment gesture, went over to his overnight bag, dug in until his fingers brushed against the crushed velvet box, then pulled it up, palmed it then stood upright, handed it to her.

"For you," he said.

"What?"

"Your birthday present."

"What? I thought the weekend away was my birthday present."

He shook his head. "I told you. Something to mark the occasion."

"No pun intended," she said wryly.

"If you say so," he said. She held out her hand, and he placed the box into it.

Her mouth dropped open. "Oh, Mark. This wasn't necessary."

"Of course it was. Open the box."

Her eyes settled on the ring in the box, the solitary sapphire the exact shade of her eyes; it had a white gold band, sized to the wedding ring he'd pilfered for a day or two in the hopes that the size of the her right fingers would sufficiently match the left. She slipped it out of its box, slipped it onto her right ring finger.

"It's perfect and gorgeous and…," she breathed, holding it up to the light, examining it until she turned her eyes away to look at him again. "Thank you."

"Oh, that isn't all."

"What? _No_."

He affected a sepulchral tone. "I'm afraid I have another gift for you, yes."

He reached into the bag a second time, pulled out a small box. Her eyes widened; she recognised the packaging even before she saw the name emblazoned on the top: La Perla. This was a brand he knew she loved but thought was too extravagant for her. He was confident this would fit too; he knew her shape and size well enough. She looked up at him with a smile. "I'll try it on, shall I?"

He teased, "I think I'd be offended if you didn't."

He doubted it would remain on long. Or maybe it would. There was something quite sexy to that, after all; the lingerie was almost really more a gift for himself, anyway.

She came out of the en suite with the nightie on, and the sight of her in it took his breath away. No way he was viewing her with rose-coloured glasses. She was—

"Perfect," he murmured.

She blew air through his lips. "Bah. _You_ are perfect."

He felt a blush stain his skin; he walked closer, lifting his hand to cup her face. "Let us agree to disagree."

Pretty much a perfect weekend, all around.

…

_Late August, 2012_

Soon enough it was Mabel's turn for Infants and Billy's impending move to the Junior Branch, and Mark could not help thinking it would be no time at all before they were all grown up, off to university…

"What's on your mind?"

He smiled, looking to her over the breakfast table. "Was just thinking about how it seemed like yesterday we were bringing Billy to Infants for the first time. Now, in just a few days—"

"Ugh, don't remind me," she groaned. "As if leaving my forties wasn't bad enough… Time's flying by. I'm starting to feel ancient."

He thought back to her fiftieth birthday weekend in March and raised a brow. "You are joking, right? Or do I need to dig the La Perla out?"

She blushed a fetching shade of pink, but pursed her lips. "You know what I mean."

"I'm afraid that I do." He was, after all, six years her senior.

He saw a shadow pass over her features just then, and he asked what it was. "I was just thinking…" She hesitated. "At least I'm not doing this all alone."

It was the first time in some time she had referred to what had happened in Sudan. He stood, took her into his arms, and held her tightly to him.


	2. Chapter 2: From the Past

**If Only…**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 34,644 in six chapters and an epilogue  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit: See Chapter 1.

Additional Chapter Note: Tiny bit of gory language in this chapter, but one might expect Mark's dreams to be vivid, don't you think?

* * *

**Chapter 2: From the Past…**

_2012, cont._

Mark noticed a distinct irritation start to come over her on a daily basis in about mid-December, one that seemed at its height when he first returned home from work, dissipating as they ate dinner together as a family, and altogether gone by the time the two of them went to bed in the evening.

"Bridget," he began after about a week of this, during their preparation for bed, "is there something wrong? Something been getting on your nerves lately? I mean, beside planning for the Christmas holiday?"

"What? Why? No!" she said sharply. "Of course not—why do you ask?"

The strangely vehement word explosion surprised him. He raised a brow. "The lady doth protest too much," he said calmly, smiling a little. "Tell me about it, darling."

She sighed, slumping down onto their bed. "The new sports teacher. Well, new to us, to Billy I mean, I think. No, he _is_ new, the grumpy old bugger. Anyway. He's absolutely maddening."

Mark listened patiently, but was genuinely surprised to hear her say this, given how much Billy had expressed fondness, even admiration, for the sports teacher whose name was escaping him. "What's so maddening?"

"Oh, I don't know. Nothing specific."

"You're getting terribly worked up over 'nothing specific'."

"Don't you patronise me, Mark Darcy," she said darkly, though offered more of a pout than an icy look.

He couldn't help himself; he chuckled, sat beside her and put his arm around her, pulling her to him. "I would never," he murmured, then pecked her on the temple. "Though you are terribly worked up over my pointing out the inconsistency."

She sighed heavily again.

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. "I just don't like seeing you so annoyed." He nuzzled into her hair, wondering if the man was making advances, leering at her; he felt himself get a bit tense at the very thought—

"It's really not that big of a deal, but it just rubs me the wrong way," she said, offering a hint of a smile; he relaxed again. "Today, for example. Billy wasn't ready when I did the school run, was playing a bit of footie with his friends. So I called for him two or three times but he was just so into it, I didn't really press… anyway. This Mr Wallaker comes along, strides up, blows his whistle and shouts, 'Billy! Your mum's been calling you!' So Billy snaps to attention, grabs his things and comes to me."

Mark waited for more, and when there was no more, he said, "So… he helped you get Billy to come to you? Where's the problem?"

Her features darkened again. "He's _obsessed_ with discipline, marching one-two-one-two, everything in line, and yes, sir, no, sir."

"I'm not entirely sure that's a fault in his line of work." Sensing a moment too late that his words—sincerely offered, though perhaps unwisely at that precise moment—would further upset her, he said, "Sorry. I am sorry that it's making you crazy."

She sniffed, then turned and embraced him again. "Thank you," she said.

After a lingering cuddle, he kissed her then suggested with a tilt of his head that they finish preparing for bed, which they did; upon slipping under the sheets he turned, held and kissed her which, as usual, led to more. Afterwards, though, with her dozing serenely in his arms, he kept thinking about her words, and felt a bit traitorous for thinking that perhaps the sports teacher had a point about discipline.

…

Since returning from Sudan, Mark had stepped back from forays into dangerous war zones and traded them for tamer consultation work; the near miss, the what-could-have-happened, really underscored how devastated his wife and children would be without him. In more recent months, he took to working in his home office if he could at all avoid driving around in London. Particularly he didn't want to drive in December, now that the weather had turned icy.

Every morning he worked at home he received an email from his office manager that included any phone messages that came into chambers the day before, and the morning of the eighteenth was no different, except for the apology at the top of the message:

_Mr Darcy, so sorry this message was mislaid. It's from Friday the 15__th__. Hope this has caused no inconvenience._

Just below it, a name, a contact number, followed by the note: _Will be in London end of December and would like to meet with you, if convenient_.

Luc Daviniere was the name attached to the Swiss number. He could only stare at it, his mouth going dry. Anton's son. As much trepidation as Mark felt—he had only ever exchanged a few words with the boy after his father had died—there was nothing to be done about it but to call; the next week was the end of December, after all, and he certainly didn't want him to think Mark was putting him off.

One ring, then two, before a crackle and silence, then, "Daviniere."

Mark cleared his throat. "Bonjour, Monsieur Daviniere. Je suis Mark Darcy; vous avez laissé un message à ma secrétaire, n'est ce pas?"

There was a beat when nothing was said; Mark wondered if his French was perhaps a bit rusty. But then Anton's son said in a friendly tone, in nearly accent-free English, "Mister Darcy! So glad that you called. Please, let us not be so formal. Call me Luc."

Mark smiled. "Please, call me Mark," he said. "The message I received says you'll be in London—is this for business or pleasure?"

"I'm travelling to the UK for the holidays, staying with friends, on break from university. First time over there," he said. Before Mark could wonder why Luc would want to meet with him, Luc continued, "I wanted to make a point to see you. Meet you. My father spoke so highly of you, and I've never had the pleasure before."

Mark thought briefly about the fact that he had been unable to attend services in Neuchâtel for Anton, and felt guilty all over again. He hadn't wanted to explain that he had been too shaken to want to fly abroad so soon after arriving home, but everyone seemed to understand anyway. "I would be honoured, Luc."

So they made arrangements for when Luc would be in town—Mark tentatively invited Luc for lunch with him on the 29th, pending discussion with Bridget—and they parted with friendly words, each looking forward to the meeting.

Mark put the phone down, the smile fading from his lips. He really was looking forward to meeting his old friend's son; he also knew it would be difficult to maintain a happy demeanour when all he would be able to think was: _your father is dead, and I didn't have the decency to die with him._

It was ridiculous, of course; he would not have preferred death to living, no one would have, but… survivor's guilt was powerful, an upswell of emotions he thought he was over, and the prospect of staring directly at consequences he hadn't previously had to face was bringing them churning back to the surface.

"Mark? Something wrong? I heard you on the phone just now."

Bridget herself, brows furrowed.

"Nothing wrong at all," he said, though he wasn't sure it was true. "I've just heard from Luc Daviniere."

"Who?" Bridget asked.

"Anton's son. You know… _Anton_."

She covered her mouth with one hand, then drew it away just as quickly. "Oh gosh. Sorry. I thought it sounded familiar but…. Well, that's out of the blue."

"He's going to be in London next week. I've invited him to lunch at The Ivy next Friday—but we can reschedule if you're busy."

"I've got a better idea, if it's okay with you," she said, tapping her fingers on her chin. "How about dinner here at the house, instead? A bit more of a relaxed attitude; you can sit back, have a glass of wine, chat at your leisure without the bustle of a restaurant around you. I mean, if he hasn't already got plans. Er. How old is he again?"

He smiled, then chuckled a bit. "He's in university. If memory serves, he's about twenty."

"Perfect, then, don't you think?" she asked.

He wondered why this notion hadn't occurred to him first. _You know why, Darcy_, he thought. _A restaurant is more impersonal._ "Sounds great," he said at last. It would be a fantastic evening. He would show the irrational part of his subconscious that he meant to be done with it.

He picked the phone up again, pressed redial, and within short order had confirmed dinner at the house on the Friday after the next.

"Can't wait to meet you all," said Luc.

…

The day of the dinner started out promising enough; Bridget had secured the assistance of Chloe in the afternoon so that the two of them could cook together in peace with Chloe tending to the children. Normally they found cooking together to be quite calming and relaxing—particularly as he could be assured the kitchen wasn't going to be set on fire—but the force with which Bridget chopped the chestnut mushrooms spoke of aggravation, even frustration on her part.

"Bridget, what's wrong?"

She slapped the knife down as if suddenly aware she could be dangerous with the thing in her hand. "Sorry," she said. "I'm just… well, you know how I thought taking the kids to the market with me this morning would cure their cabin fever a bit?"

Warily, he said, "Yes…"

"Well, it did, but…. Gah, that _man_ was there. Wallaker."

"At the shops?"

"No, the park."

"Why were you at…? Never mind," he said, interrupting himself. "What did he say that's made you so upset?"

She let out a long breath. "You know, it was the most innocuous conversation; I don't even know why I let it get to me."

"What did he say?" he repeated in a stern tone usually reserved for the children now. "The whole story, Bridget."

She sighed, resigned. "On the way home we stopped at the park; I figured I'd sit and have a bit of a rest while they ran around, got it all out of their systems. Suddenly there he is, commenting on me walking to the shops and carrying my own groceries. I told him we were having company for dinner from out of town, and he expressed surprise I wasn't having it catered in," she said, without taking a break.

Given the school, given the reputation, it seemed a fair jest for the man to make. As different as she was from some of the other mums she'd talked about, it was fair to think carrying one's own groceries or cooking for a dinner party was unheard of amongst that lot. It was hard to think of Wallaker's words as anything but joking.

Before Mark could stop himself, he chuckled.

"_Mark!_" She picked up an oven glove and lobbed it at him. "How can you think that's funny? Like we're too posh to be cooking for ourselves. I mean… how entitled does he think we are?"

"Bridget, consider for a moment some of the other mums. He was probably just taking the piss. That one you talk about a lot, what was her name? Nicorette?"

"Nicolette," she said abashedly; she had called the woman by the name of the smoking cessation gum so many times that even he tended to get confused.

"Right," he said. "Can you picture her cooking for herself? Fetching her own groceries? _Walking_ to the market with her children in tow?"

She pursed her lips, then smirked a little. "No, I guess not really."

"You see," Mark said. "I'm always right. Now. Let's get the show on the road with this beef Wellington."

They had been making the dish together so long that they barely needed to speak to get the tasks complete, and before he knew it, they were clearing off the countertops and prepping the potatoes and the asparagus for cooking a little closer to Luc's arrival time.

Then Chloe was packing up to leave, Billy and Mabel were presenting them with drawings from the afternoon: a footballer by Billy, and a four-legged amorphous blob that was, according to Mabel, a unicorn; both were praised effusively for the effort.

"Hope you have a really nice evening," Chloe said with a smile.

It wasn't until then that it all became very real for Mark. Luc, Anton's son, in his home for dinner, that night.

Bridget went to freshen her makeup, and the children were occupied in the sitting room watching SpongeBob. He had already pulled several bottles of Bordeaux for dinner, and he returned to the kitchen in order to decant one. The homey scent of the baking beef Wellington and potatoes was reassuring, but he could not resist pouring a glass of wine for himself to steady his nerves. He took a sip, then exhaled. Peace, quiet. All would be fine; they'd have a nice night, a good meal, get to know his old colleague's only son.

The front doorbell went off, startling him from his thoughts. Luc had arrived.

With his heart hammering in his chest, Mark went to answer the door. He drew it open to see a handsome young man standing there: short cropped dark hair, hazel eyes, bright smile, the spitting image of his father in his younger days. "Hello," he said. "You must be Mark Darcy."

"And you must be Luc," he said with a smile. "Please, come inside." He stood aside to allow Luc passage into their home… and to steady himself fighting off a wave of dizziness. Luc was saying something, but his hearing had suddenly gotten a bit muffled, tinny—

"Are you quite all right?" Luc asked.

Mark snapped back to the present, bringing his fingers to his forehead. "What? Yes, sorry, I'm fine. I… must have stood up too quickly. What were you saying?"

"I was thanking you for the invitation," he said.

"It is truly my pleasure," said Mark. "Shall I take your coat?" He noticed then that Luc was toting a small carrier bag, when Luc then held up.

"This is for all of you, the least I could do," he said.

Mark took the bag as Luc doffed his coat, took a look inside: a couple of boxes of premium Swiss chocolate. Mark chuckled. "I think Bridget will like these very much."

"You won't?"

"I'm sure I would," he said jokingly, "but I'll probably be lucky to get one before she tucks into them—"

"Is he here?" called Bridget.

"Yes, darling, he is," Mark called back.

At that moment, Mabel came running into the foyer, chased by Billy, the former giggling madly, the latter looking a tad frustrated. They both stopped when they realised they had company. "Oh, hello," said Mabel.

Luc crouched down. "You must be Mabel," he said with a smile.

She screwed her face up in confusion, then looked up to her father. "Daddy, how doeth this thtrange guy know my name?"

"Mabel," scolded Billy, "don't be rude."

Mark tried not to chuckle, but was unsuccessful. Luc stood up again, smiling too; Mabel was always a little charmer. "This is Billy, Luc, and you've already met Mabel," he said wryly. "Billy, Mabel, this is Luc. He's the son of a man I worked with a lot." He looked to Luc. "I respected him, thought of him as a mentor, even though we weren't that far apart in age. And someone I miss a great deal."

Luc nodded. "He'd say the same about you, Mark."

"What's that, Daddy?" asked Mabel, sniffing—a veritable chocolate bloodhound—as she noticed the carrier bag. "Is that _candy_?"

"Did I hear the word 'candy'?" Bridget appeared then, descending the stairs with a beaming smile. "You must be Luc… such a pleasure to meet you." He handed her the bag, into which she peeked. "And you've brought us… chocolate. My stars. _Swiss_ chocolate."

"You see what I mean," said Mark; Luc laughed.

"Here, let me take that coat from you," she said, eschewing the chocolate for the time being in order to be a good hostess. "Dinner's nearly ready and we'll eat soon, but if you'd like some wine…?"

"That would be lovely, thank you."

"Come on!" said Billy cheerfully. "I'll take you to the sitting room. We were watching SpongeBob, but it's over now. Mummy will get the wine and you can wait with us."

Luc chuckled. "All right, I'll… go with Billy."

"I'll be right there." After the three of them were out of earshot, Bridget turned to Mark, concern playing on her features. "Mark, you're looking a bit peaked," she said quietly. "Are you sure you're okay?"

He nodded. "Just had a little wine before he rang the bell, stood up a bit too quickly… I'll be fine."

"If you're sure," she said warily.

"I'm fine." He handed her the chocolates. "Take this with you, I'll go and make sure the children aren't trying to rope him into Xbox." He smiled. "And try not to eat them all."

"Give me a little credit," she said, but as she walked away he could see her edging the top off of one of the boxes, could hear the paper rustle as she poked her fingers in.

As expected, Billy was pulling out the controllers for the Xbox, handing one to Luc. "Billy," Mark said, "no Xbox now. Besides, we're eating soon."

Billy pouted, but did as asked. Then he brightened. "Maybe later?"

Mark glanced to Luc, who smirked a little, nodded. "Maybe," Mark said. "But only if our guest asks. Sound fair?"

Billy nodded enthusiastically.

"And maybe Hellvanians too?" Mabel asked hopefully.

Mark bent and picked her up, gave her a hug. His darling girl. Mark's eyes began to tear up; he willed those tears back. "If nothing else, Princess, you and I will play with them," he said quietly, causing her to giggle.

"Okay, Daddy," she said. "You do the best Fuckoon voices."

"Better than Mummy?" he asked conspiratorially.

"Yeth," she said, grinning madly.

He glanced to Luc, who looked confused. "That's what she calls the Sylvanians and the raccoon family."

"Ah, thank you."

Bridget arrived just then. "Mummy," said Billy. "Mabel says Daddy does better Sylvanian voices than you."

"It's true, he does better raccoons, but my bunny voice is unsurpassed," she said, handing Luc a glass of wine and keeping one for herself. "Forgive the clutter. I promise it was tidy earlier."

"Small children; don't worry, I understand."

Bridget seemed to realise just then how excellent Luc's English was: "I'm so glad you speak such impeccable English—we'd be lost if we had to rely on my awful French."

Luc chuckled.

"Anyway, in a few minutes, I'll pop down to the kitchen and put in the beef for the last twenty minutes, and then we'll be good to go. Beef Wellington, new potatoes, asparagus. I hope you're up for some standard English fare."

"It sounds delectable," he said. "What about you Billy, Mabel? What do you think of that dish?"

"Yummy!" said Mabel with a squeal.

"The best," added Billy.

Suddenly Mark was overcome with the feeling that he needed to get out of the room. "Darling," he said to Bridget, "why don't I go and tend to the beef? Enjoy your wine."

She looked confused and concerned, but said, "Okay."

He didn't know what had come over him, but once he got to the kitchen he felt better, even relieved. The timer for the roasting portion of baking the beef was just about up, so he lowered the gas mark and set the timer again for twenty minutes.

Mission completed, he braced himself against the counter with one hand, then, after a moment's consideration, poured another glass of wine with the other. He went over what had just occurred; he wondered why he was feeling so panicked.

It _was_ a sort of panic, he realised. Luc had been robbed of so many moments with his father while still so young. This pleasant domesticity was all serving to remind Mark of what the boy—young man—had lost. It wasn't Mark's fault though; he had to keep telling himself that.

"It's _not_ my fault," he said quietly to himself.

Or at least he intended it to be to himself.

He felt a hand against his shoulder blade, heard his wife's tender voice. "Mark," she said tenderly. "We didn't have to do this if you—"

He turned around to face her. He did not need to explain his thoughts; her expression of sympathy and concern said it all. "I'll be fine," he said. "I realise I'm being ridiculous."

"But you're not," she said. "It's normal to feel sad."

"It's not… _sad_, really—I mean, I _am_ sad, I do still grieve for Anton, but this… this is…" He trailed off. He did not quite know how to express his thoughts, and felt himself get frustrated at trying to find a way.

She set down her wine glass, took his from him, then wrapped her arms around him, clutching him tightly to her. "I am so incredibly grateful for each and every day we have had with you since the day of the land mine, so fortunate that you are here with me. With _us_. I can only imagine how you feel at the reminder of what you—"

"Guilty," he murmured. "And guilty for feeling that way because obviously I wouldn't…."

As he trailed off, she pressed her lips against his neck, her breath warm and comforting along his earlobe. "You are a strong man," she said quietly.

"I wouldn't be half as strong without you."

She drew back, looked to him with glistening eyes. "Don't you make me cry, Mark Darcy, not with company here, ruining my makeup," she said with a little smile. She'd said it with the intent to make him smile, too, and it worked. "Come on. Let's gather everyone up for dinner. It's just about done, and my mouth is watering."

The return to the sitting room lifted his spirits: there were Billy and Luc, already deeply engaged in Xbox, with Mabel staring on intently. The two of them couldn't help laughing. He slipped an arm around Bridget's waist, kissed the top of her head.

"I almost don't want to interrupt," he said with a little laugh.

…

He wasn't supposed to be in the vehicle. He was supposed to have stayed behind to call home. Why was he in the vehicle, on the road? "We have to go back," he said; he turned to the driver, to Anton, and he recoiled in horror at what he saw: barely recognisable as human, let alone Anton, with flesh hanging from bones, blood soaking his clothing and skin.

"We must go on," said Anton in an eerie, liquid-burbling voice. "It's your turn. Here we go!"

"No, no, _nonono_—"

White light flashed; he screamed, felt heat race over his skin, _swore_ he felt it—

Mark woke with a start, gasping for breath, soaked in sweat in the dark of his bedroom in London. _London_. He was home; he was safe.

He felt Bridget's arm come up and over him to reassure him as she had done so many times before when he'd had nightmares soon after returning from Sudan; he moved closer to her, let her enfold him in her arms and snuggle in close to him. They could talk about it in the morning, but right now she knew it was the last thing he wanted to do, and for that he was grateful.

The rest of his night's sleep was uninterrupted, and when he woke he was in the bed alone, a note tented on his nightstand.

_Am downstairs. Made sure your diary was clear for the morning or would not have let you sleep. Message me & will bring brekkies. XX_

He reached for his mobile and sent the briefest of notes—_Awake, darling_—and within minutes he heard her footfalls on the stairs, then the landing.

"Hi," she said gently with a smile, bringing a cup of coffee and a pastry to him.

He sat up to accept both, thanking her but adding, "You know I shouldn't eat that."

"Shush," she said. "You had a bad dream and you need something nice to eat."

He smiled and took a bite.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked tentatively.

He looked down to his coffee cup as if it would help him think. "About what you'd expect. Sudan. This time, though… trapped in the car with Anton. Or what…" He cleared his throat. "What used to be Anton." He shuddered as the dream-image flashed in his mind's eye.

"Oh, _Mark_." He looked to her again, saw tears in her eyes; he was grateful that he had a firm hand on his coffee when she launched herself forward to take him in her arms, which he appreciated. She kissed his cheek. "That must have been dreadful."

"I'm sure it was seeing Luc that triggered it," he said, his voice unexpectedly throaty. "I'll be fine."

She sat back again, placed her hand on the duvet over his thigh. "You'll tell me if you're not," she said sternly.

"Of course, darling," he said, then added with a smile, "though I don't recall authorising your withdrawal."

"I _should_ make you finish your breakfast first," she said with mock-coolness, "but never could refuse you."

She pushed back the sheet, sat beside him, leaned back against the pillows and pulled him back to sit against her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, allowing him to continue his breakfast without interruption. Until—

"Bridget?"

"Hm?"

"Where are Billy and Mabel?"

"Oh," she said nonchalantly, "I slipped them a sleeping draught. They're down for the count." He didn't have to look at her to know she was kidding. "Daniel came by, offered to take them out to the park."

"He came by," said Mark; he hadn't heard from Daniel in at least a fortnight. "Just so happened."

"Yep." She kissed the back of his neck. "Unbelievable coincidence."

He finished his breakfast then took advantage of the silent, child-free house to hold her to him in a lengthy, lingering embrace, taking refuge in her warmth and unconditional love, feeling all of his stress and worry melt away with every kiss and caress.

"Feeling better?" she asked, resting on one elbow, looking down at him, her blonde hair haloing her head as if she were an angel. She brought her free hand up to his cheek, dragging her nails over the stubble there.

"Quite," he said drowsily. "Thank you." He placed a hand atop hers. "I am constantly reminded that I'm the luckiest man around."

"Convenient, that," she murmured, bending to kiss the tip of his nose, "as I'm the luckiest woman."

As she did this, they both heard the car horn tooting relentlessly outside, causing them to laugh. The horn heralded the return of Daniel and the children, and the sounding horn was their fair warning, a practice Daniel had instituted after a near-miss in returning the children once; "You'd think you two were twenty-five years younger or something," Daniel had said, which had caused Mark to remind him that they had two children under eight.

"I suppose we had better get dressed," he said, smirking.

…

_January 2013_

It wasn't as if he had never done the school run before. It had just been a long time… and it had been with only one child in school.

Given the daily exposure to their young children (and, by extension, all of the friends of said young children), it was really quite miraculous that Bridget and Mark stayed as healthy as they did. Bridget in particular seemed to have a pretty rock solid constitution, to the point that she resisted accepting the fact that she had a cold even when she did.

And on this day, she certainly did, just one day into the new school term.

"No, I must insist you stay at home and not make it worse," Mark said to her upon hearing her sneezing for the umpteenth time that day then sniffing and using a tissue. "Rest, have some more tea and honey. I'll get the children."

"Are you sure?" she said, her eyes red and rheumy, her nose pink and irritated. "This—" She pointed at her own stuffed nose; it sounded more like 'Dis'—"is really no big deal."

"I must insist," he said again, holding up a hand to say he would brook no further resistance. "We'll be back before you know it."

Mark went first for Mabel—"Daddy! You're not late like Mummy ith!" she exclaimed with a bit more honesty than strictly necessary, he thought—then over to Junior Branch for Billy, arriving there before class was over. He parked the car, helped Mabel out, then walked inside the gates over to where the children would be exiting the building.

The door burst open and a stream of them came flooding out, each met by a parent; no Billy yet, though. With Mabel at his side, running around in figure eights on the pavement, Mark sat and waited, and as the density of children grew thinner and thinner, he actually began to worry. Until—

Billy was accompanied by a tall, well-built man with dark blond hair cropped into what Mark's eyes looked like a slightly more relaxed variant of a military haircut. He wondered whether this was the infamous sports teacher, and if so, it was surprising; from Bridget's descriptions he'd pictured the man to be older if not elderly, certainly grumpier looking, even crotchety. But there he was with Billy, a picture of vigour and health; the two of them both had smiles on their faces as if they'd just shared a joke between them.

"Billeeee!" chirped Mabel.

Billy and the man both looked their way, the tall man's brow furrowing in confusion, then realisation as they drew nearer. Billy smiled, said, "Hi, Dad," and then added in an almost wry manner, "You're on time."

Then the man spoke, confirming Mark's suspicions. "I'm Mr Wallaker," he said, reaching his hand out for a shake. "You must be Mr Darcy. I've heard a lot about you."

"Likewise," said Mark, accepting the handshake.

"Mr Wallaker was just asking about our Christmas holiday, and I told him about the French guy who came to dinner and played my new Xbox game with me, and how Aunt Magda and Uncle Jeremy and Aunt Jude and Uncle Tom all came over for New Year's Eve…" said Billy. He then furrowed his brow. "Wait. Where's Mummy, anyway?"

"She's not feeling well, so I've come instead."

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that," said Wallaker, genuine concern flitting across his features. "It's nothing too serious, is it?"

"Not at all, just your run-of-the-mill head cold," said Mark. "She tried to come anyway, so I had to convince her (as she insisted) that she was not in fact Joan Crawford for not doing the school run—"

Wallaker interrupted him with a loud laugh. "Sorry… I just can see it, really."

Mark smiled too as he considered Bridget's assessment of the man; it seemed he was not humourless after all. "I really thought it best she stay in and rest."

He nodded. "Tea and honey."

"Exactly," he said. "Well, I'd best get them home."

"Yes, I see Mabel's getting restless," said Wallaker with a grin. Mabel had climbed up on the stone wall; Mark sighed. "Pleasure meeting you at last," he said.

"Likewise," said Mark, who then swooped to take Mabel into his arms, grinning quite without thinking of it. "Come on, Princess, time to go home."

Mabel waved comically over Mark's shoulder, calling out behind them as they walked away, "Byeeee, Mr Wolkda!"

Once he'd gotten the two children properly buckled in, he headed for home; Mabel and Billy alternately chattered about their first day back after the new year, but Mark only half listened. It wasn't that he didn't care, because he certainly did. He just wondered how terrible a man this Wallaker could possibly be if even Mabel seemed to like him.

"Mummy!" Mabel said to Bridget, who was passing through the foyer with a cup of steaming hot tea as they arrived home; she ran forward as if to hug her legs, then stopped short. "Don't wanna get sick," Mabel explained.

"Right you are," said Bridget. "So how was school on your first day back, then?"

"It was okay," said Billy. "Think I did okay on my spelling test."

"Spelling test on the first day back," she said. "My word."

"We had a tea party," said Mabel. "And Daddy met Mr Wolkda!"

Bridget swivelled around to look at Mark, one brow cocked in curiosity. "Oh, did you?"

"Yes I did," said Mark, "and I'm not sure what the fuss is about. He seems perfectly nice. He asked after your health, recommended, well, _that_." He pointed to her tea.

"I'm sure he was perfectly nice, Mark. You're not a—" she began, then forced a smile. "Never mind. Children, why don't you go on and change out of your school clothes, okay?"

They ran upstairs towards their rooms; Mark prompted, "What am I not?"

She sighed. "I need to sit down."

He followed her back to the sitting room, where she'd set up a little blanket nest on the sofa next to a table with a book. "You didn't answer me."

She spread the blanket out over her legs. "Well, I didn't want to insult him in front of the children—I may not like him, but he's still Billy's teacher."

"So what am I not?"

"You're not a woman," she said. "So of course he's not going to be all patronising and condescending to you."

"That hardly seems fair."

"I've met the man countess times, and you met him once, so I think my assessment is likely more correct," she said.

"Have you considered," Mark began gingerly, "that he's taking the piss?"

"Taking the piss? I like to think I have more of a sense of humour than that," she said. "No, I know the difference between teasing and blatant insults. I mean, suggesting I spend my afternoons at the hairdressers and not doing anything more useful than that? How is that piss-taking?"

"Bridget, think again of…" R? L? "…Nicolette. I think she—"

"Even if that is true, the point is that he assumes I am the same way, and that is totally unfair of him."

"Point taken," said Mark. "However, have you ever called him out on this prejudicial behaviour?"

"I—well, no!" she said, turning red. "I didn't want to be rude in front of the children."

"So you'll set him straight at the soonest, yes?"

"This doesn't excuse treating Billy like a machine," she said, changing the subject.

"Ah yes. The whistle and the discipline," he said, taking a seat at her feet on the other end of the sofa. "You see, Bridget, I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. Billy's growing up before our eyes, and he needs to know when to follow rules—"

"He knows when to follow rules, Mark," she said. "He's got _you_ for a father."

"And a mother who can be a bit lax with them," he said gently. "He needs a little more external structure for reinforcement."

He wondered if he'd gone a bit too far; she looked really upset. "Are you saying I spoil him?"

"You do, a bit."

"And what about you? And Mabel? You spoil the hell out of her."

"I am going to call privileges on this one," he said solemnly. "After all, she saved my life."

Bridget went stone silent, and after a few moments opened her mouth to speak, just as Mabel came dashing in. "Mummy, are you better yet?"

"Not yet," she said, looking to her daughter with a smile before looking back to Mark. Her smile fell and she said coolly, "Go and feed your children. We're not finished with this." She then reached over, took a tissue, and blew her nose.

He knew a dismissal when he heard one.

With Billy working on some homework and Mabel playing with her Sylvanian family within his sight, Mark pulled out the makings of bangers and mash; he got the potatoes peeled in record time as he answered Billy's questions. With the potatoes boiling and the bangers frying up on the hob, he felt a hand on his arm. It could only be one person. He push the bangers in the pan, then turned to look at her.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

"Mm-hm," she said wearily. "Look, about before. I'm—"

"Don't apologise," he said. "I shouldn't have pressed the matter while you're not well. And anyway, you're absolutely right. You do know the man better than I do and have had far more opportunity to observe him."

"Thanks," she said. "And… I'll concede that perhaps I do spoil Billy a bit."

He chuckled. "Just a bit," he said. "We each spoil our children in our own way."

"He's just… he's only going to be a child for so long," she said. "Before you know it he'll be all grown up, go off to uni, get married…"

"I totally understand," he said, then turned and kissed the top of her head. "Now, top up your tea; I'll bring you a plate of dinner if you want some."

She smiled wanly. "I think a tin of broth is all I'm up for."

…

"Come with me."

It was a strange male voice he was hearing through the smoky darkness; the flashing lights were distracting and discombobulating. He felt he had no choice but to follow the sound. Running, feeling the smoke burning his lungs, he was ushered into a small room—

Except it wasn't a small room at all. It was the armoured vehicle, only this time, it was Billy's sports teacher behind the wheel. He revved the engine, shifted the gear stick. "It's about time," he said. "I'll get you out of here."

Panic rose quickly in him; Mark turned and tugged at the handle to open the door, but it wouldn't budge. Wallaker gunned the engine; Mark was thrown back against the seat; they shot forward at top speed, coursing through the rough terrain, bracing himself, expecting the inevitable impact of the land mine—

With a gasp and a violent jerk Mark woke, worried for a moment that he'd again awakened Bridget, but he needn't have worried; she was sound asleep after a dose of night-time cold medicine. He took deep, calming breaths, willing the rapid pulse to slow to something restful, but it didn't do any good. He decided to try to work off the adrenaline by looking in on the children, so he slipped out of bed, put on his robe, and quietly left the room.

First he went to Billy's room. Billy slept soundly on his twin bed, surrounded by his Puffles and other favourite toys, swaddled with blankets and looking peaceful as he could possibly be. The sight made his heart swell with love, helped to calm and centre him; he moved forward to brush his fingers along the hair near Billy's temple.

Next, Mark went to look in on Mabel, who had recently upgraded to a 'big girl's bed'—a twin mattress like Billy's—and she looked incredibly tiny in the middle of it. He nearly started chuckling at the way she seemed to like to sleep, hair swept forward, falling down and obscuring her face while clutching Saliva to her. Gingerly he brushed the hair away to reveal her deceptively angelic face. _My little princess_, he thought. _The reason I'm here with you today._

He then returned to his bedroom, where his wife still slept; she hadn't moved a muscle. Her arm was flung over her head and her mouth was slightly open, softly snoring due to the congestion from her head cold. Still beautiful to his eyes.

He felt inordinately better having reminded himself how much he loved and cherished his family. He drew back the duvet and sheets and slipped in, settling in next to Bridget; the sound of her soft breathing helped lull him back to a tranquil sleep.


	3. Chapter 3: A More Social Context

**If Only…**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 34,644 in six chapters and an epilogue  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 3: A More Social Context**

_March 2013_

"Where are you and Mummy goin'?"

Mark looked down to where Mabel's little face shone up from below, inquisitive as ever. "We're going out."

"Oh, date night?" This question from Billy.

"Of a sort," he said, turning back to the mirror in order to try to tie the bowtie at his throat; Billy had seen his parents embark on more than one date night, though said dates didn't usually require such formal attire. "It's kind of a party."

In actual fact, it was a charity event to raise money for The GREAT Initiative in honour of International Women's Day, sponsored by Cinnamon Productions, the company for which Bridget worked. Bridget was very excited about it, had even gone out of her way to go out shopping with her friend and colleague Talitha for a new dress, which she had teasingly forbidden Mark to see before the night. In fact, she had booted him from their en suite in order to prepare; he used a mirror in a guest loo to get the tie straight.

"Mummy looks really pretty," said Billy with a grin.

"I always think so," Mark said, placing his hand on Billy's head to ruffle his hair.

"She looks really, _really_ pretty, though, Daddy," said Mabel. "Thinderella printhess pretty."

He chuckled, turning to her. "'Cinderella princess pretty', eh?" he said. "That is some serious pret—"

He stopped; he had to, because his eyes landed on Bridget, and the sight of her really did take his breath away. The dress was long, sleeveless, and apparently of dark peacock blue silk with a black lace layer over it. The fabric was gathered at the shoulders, creating elegant curved folds between the modest neckline and her chest; it was formfitting through her hips, but flared flatteringly out from there.

He thought he couldn't be more bowled over, but then she turned away from him to look coquettishly over her shoulder; that was when he realised the modest neckline was the trade-off for the low backline, which formed a V ending nearly at the waist.

"Nice to see I can still leave you speechless," she said with a light laugh.

"If this is a surprise to you," he said, snapping out of it at last, "then I'm doing something wrong." He moved closer to her, conscious that she'd put her hair up in an elegant bun, done the dark, smoky shadow and mascara with pale lips; he had to get very close to smell the perfume, his favourite, rising from her skin. "_Very_ nice."

She giggled. "Mark," she whispered. "The children."

He realised, quite without conscious thought, that he had bent to lingeringly kiss her neck. He chuckled, too, as he drew back. "A natural response, though if anyone else dares try it—"

"See? I _told_ you," said Mabel indignantly. "Like Thinderella!"

"You, as always, are completely right," Mark said. "Come on, I'm sure Constance is wondering where you two have got off to."

As it turned out, Constance had been so busy getting together ingredients for a cake that she didn't notice their absence until they returned. "Sorry," she said, blushing. "I hope they didn't interrupt you."

It never failed to surprise Mark that the girl—_A young woman of eighteen_, he corrected—standing before him was the same one he'd met for the first time at her third birthday party; she had grown into a tall, slender, bespectacled adult with long, wavy hair (auburn like her mother's), and a penchant for knitting and baking, the latter of which always made the children happy to see her.

"Not at all," he said.

"Upstairs, Daddy kissed Mummy'th neck!" said Mabel with a grin.

"It was a peck," said Bridget, flushing pink enough to match her goddaughter. "We are very grateful you were available to sit the children."

"It's my pleasure," she said with a grin.

After donning his coat and helping her secure her faux-fox wrap, they walked arm in arm out to the car, then were off to the event.

"I sort of wish I weren't working," she said. "I'm a bit nervous—I haven't done this in a while."

"You've directed lots of times," he said as he navigated towards the hotel.

"I meant be on camera," she said, "and I certainly haven't done both at once before."

"I have every confidence in you," he said. "Just one word of advice: hold off on having a cocktail until you've finished the segment."

From the passenger seat, she playfully poked his arm.

Upon their arrival, it amused and bewildered him that the throng of paparazzi unleashed a flood of flashes in their direction as they emerged from the car, which was then to be valeted away to the hotel's lot. After depositing her wrap with the coat check, they made their way to the ballroom. The event was dazzling, truly a gala affair; the ballroom was alive with the hum of voices and laughter, of tinkling stemware and mellow strings.

"I know you want a drink," she said, taking his arm. "Let's get one for you, then I'll find my crew."

They waited at the bar for a glass of red wine when Mark heard his wife say, "Oh my God, it's _Mr Wallaker_."

Mark turned with his drink to see that in fact it was Wallaker, who seemed to see them at the same time… and the look on his face as he took in Bridget's appearance spoke volumes to Mark, even as it had no noticeable effect on Bridget.

It told Mark of his attraction to her; it also explained the interactions she'd described to him. It wasn't that he disliked her; it was that he might have liked her a little too much. _Interesting_, he thought.

"Oh my _God_," Bridget said again. "That must be his _wife_!"

As Wallaker drew nearer Mark's eyes shifted slightly to the woman beside him. His first impression was that given the garish but obviously well-tailored couture gown she wore, she clearly came from money; that she had probably been a beautiful woman in her youth, but in her attempts to cling to that youth, she'd taken extreme measures that hadn't altogether succeeded. The result was that there was a plastic sheen to her, an unnatural immobility to her features.

"Mrs Darcy, nice to see you," said Wallaker with a tight smile; he turned, then continued, extending his hand. "Mr Darcy, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to see you here, given your line of work." After an awkward pause, he said, "Allow me to introduce my wife, Sarah. Sarah, this is Mr and Mrs Darcy, parents to one of my students."

"Nice," she said. "To meet you, I mean." It occurred to Mark then that with her unfocused demeanour and sway in her stance, she seemed more than just overly fond of cosmetic surgery; she seemed half-drunk already. The impression was not dispelled when she then said, "Will you get me that gin and tonic, dear?"

"Yes, Sarah," Wallaker said to her, then to Mark and Bridget, "If you'll pardon me."

The Wallakers carried forward towards the bar as Mark and Bridget left it behind; Mark saw her brows raise ever so slightly. "Wow, she is… not what I expected at all." Then she looked enviously at his wine. "Well. I should find my crew," she said. "Not sure why I'm so nervous."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," he said, then bent to kiss her cheek. "I'll have a drink at the ready for you."

She smiled. "You really are the most _perfect_ man." With that, she walked away, and he took great pleasure in watching her walk away in that dress she was wearing. _And you, the most perfect woman_, he thought.

He took a turn around the room before going back to the bar and ordering a mojito for her—it was a recent discovery and her newest favourite cocktail, displacing the old standard of a Bloody Mary—then found where she and her camera crew were preparing to film. He watched her give them instructions with the authority she had developed over the years, then the lights came up, and they began shooting. He smiled with pride, then chuckled a little remembering her earliest endeavours on screen. _And now, back to the studio_, he thought with amusement.

"Do you get arm-twisted into to these often?"

He glanced over to see Wallaker had joined him, and the tone suggested he was joking. He was without Sarah, and unkindly Mark wondered if she had decided to hover at the bar.

"Not often, but so far this one's better than most, and a great cause, so I can't complain." He sipped his wine, thinking, but not saying aloud, how he always liked to have an excuse to take his wife out for a glamorous evening. "How about you?"

"Sarah does a lot of charity luncheons," he said. "She doesn't drag me along often." Mark got the distinct impression that Wallaker did not feel the same about a glamorous night. Then he was surprised to hear Wallaker add, "Well, not as often as before the divorce. I'll grant this one's pretty good, though." Wallaker squinted at the lights and the cameras. "Do you know what that's about over there?"

"Bridget and her crew are filming a segment for tomorrow's _Sit Up Britain_."

"Bridget? Filming?" he asked.

Mark then explained the consultation work she usually did for Cinnamon Productions, sponsors of the event; how she usually worked behind the scenes on the show, but how she had arranged to film the segment for coverage to try to promote donations after the fact. "Since she was coming anyway," he added.

"Ah," he said; it was obvious to Mark that Wallaker was flummoxed. He realised Bridget had been right: Wallaker had no idea that Bridget worked, and not because she needed to, but because she wanted to.

The bright camera lights extinguished, and very soon after wrapping, Bridget came to him, hand outstretched. "My saviour," she said, taking the drink, then giving him a full kiss on the mouth before taking a long sip. "Ahhh. Lovely, thank you." She started, her eyes darting to Wallaker; a blush tinted her cheeks. "Oh, hello. Sorry. Didn't see you there. Having a nice time?"

"Hello again," he said coolly. "Not bad, so far. And you?"

"I intend to now that I'm done with working," she said, lifting her glass in a toast. After another sip, she asked, "Where's your wife?"

"Off to the ladies, I think," he said. "I should find her." He returned the toast, then withdrew.

"I'll grant you," she said after another draw from her glass, "that he's a bit more of a human being outside of the school scenario." Her voice lowered. "What is the _story_ with that wife of his?"

"Ex-wife," he said.

"Oh, _really_? Huh. Interesting," she said. "Wonder if she's got dirt on him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, why else would he come with her?"

"Maybe he's interested in the cause too," he said, then he slipped his arm around her waist, placed a kiss on her temple, taking a moment to savour the scent of her perfume again. "Darling," he continued with good humour in his tone, "it doesn't do to speculate on their relationship. Not to mention that it's not how I want to spend my evening."

He drew back to see her grinning. "All right," she said. "We can spend this evening however you like, but first, I need another mojito."

"Your wish, my command, and all that." He turned towards the bar, and saw something that confused him: Wallaker, looking directly at them, an unmistakably pained expression on his face before the mask slipped back into place, and he turned from them.

Mark wondered then if perhaps the man was more than just attracted to his wife.

He went to get the mojito for her, considering with a high level of amusement that even if she were inclined to be unfaithful (she wasn't), she never would have succeeded because she had no awareness whatsoever of when a man was interested in her.

"Gin and tonic, please."

Mark glanced over, half-expecting to see Wallaker ordering for his wife again, but this was a young man, probably thirty, fairly good-looking with dark hair and a broad smile marked with a slight diastema. He looked to Mark, nodding once in acknowledgement. "Hey," said the stranger.

"Hello."

"Had no idea _Sit Up Britain_ would be here," he said, nodding to where the cameras had been. "Haven't seen that presenter before, though." He whistled low. "Don't mean to sound like a chauvinist pig, but wow… what a hottie."

Mark chuckled, considering his previous thought as the barman handed the mojito to him. "This drink's for her."

"Snapped her up already, did you? Lucky bastard," he said with a grin. "Early bird gets the… well, bird. Well, cheers."

_You have no idea how much earlier_, Mark thought. "Cheers," Mark said, turning away from the bar.

When he found Bridget again, she was chatting with Talitha. "Oh, thank you, love," she said, taking the drink gratefully. "What are you smirking about?"

"Oh, nothing," he said, then thought, _have only just identified two admirers of yours in thirty minutes._

…

Over the first three months of the year, the nightmares had returned. To Mark's dismay they had begun to occur more and more frequently, from the one first substituting Wallaker for Anton as the driver, to the one the evening after the charity event, where the armoured vehicle, under siege by rifle fire and again driven by an unrecognisable Anton, carried himself, Wallaker, and Bridget's unnamed admirer from the bar.

It was becoming harder to disguise the fact from Bridget.

"Mark, I'm not stupid."

"Bridget," he said, rubbing the corners of his eyes with a thumb and forefinger as they sat at the table with breakfast. "I have never thought you were."

"Then go and see someone about the nightmares." Her hand covered his, her voice gentler than at first. "You know that I am more than willing to listen, but I know there may be things about them you don't want to burden me with." She sighed. "Even if I don't agree with that."

"It's nothing I can't handle."

She exhaled roughly in her frustration. "You don't have to be all stoic and go-it-alone."

"It didn't help last time," he shot back. "A waste of time."

"Then talk to _me_."

He didn't want to share the vivid imagery that played in the theatre of his mind. She already knew he didn't want to share it with her, so he said nothing at all, looking down to his breakfast, taking his hand back from hers in order to eat.

She pushed quickly back from the table. "I'd better get the kids up," she said, but didn't move away. She spoke again. "Mark."

He looked to her, and was surprised by the glossiness of her eyes.

"Please talk to someone. For my sake."

He found himself nodding slightly. "Okay."

"Thank you."

As the days went on, he still had no idea what he was going to do, and other tasks were always higher priority. Inertia being what it was, he made no further progress. The nightmares continued, though he tried not to disturb her when they did.

…

_June 2013_

Bridget had not been kidding when she said it was usually only the mums who turned up to these sports day events. With Billy participating in his first one, though—in the long jump—Mark thought it was worth clearing his day for. As it turned out, the only other men there were teachers, and he found that he was, amongst the other mums there, something of a curiosity.

"How nice it is of your hubby to come—such a handsome fellow," confided Farzia, who Bridget had once told Mark was the nicest of the school mums. He supposed he was not meant to overhear this comment to Bridget, but he had, and it made him blush a bit.

Bridget had practically arranged half the kitchen into the picnic hamper as well as the red and green bell pepper slices she had been asked to contribute to the day for general group consumption. She'd also smuggled in a large bottle of Pimm's against his recommendations (and without his knowledge). "Trust me," she'd said. "We'll need fortifications."

Perhaps it was the Pimm's, possibly just the lovely summer weather, but Mark detected that perhaps Bridget was warming a little to the sports teacher; he saw her talking with him, smiling as if they were friends, which Mark was pleased to see given all the past animosity.

The competitive races were soon to begin; first up, the egg-in-spoon race. Mark had Mabel with him, riding on his shoulders so that she could see above the crowd, and she was as happy as could be in her little sunglasses and sunhat. Mark could see that the first event was lining up; Bridget was still near Wallaker when the starter pistol was fired.

That's when something curious happened. Wallaker reacted as if he were under siege; he made a move as if he were reaching for a pistol in a holster that was not there. Mark was too far away to hear the ensuing conversation, particularly with Mabel's running commentary, but he could plainly see concern on her face as she stood, listened and then talked a bit more during the race. Curious, Mark slowly made his way towards where they were, and upon getting close enough to be within earshot, all he could hear was, "…must be very difficult to deal with," before she noticed her husband approaching.

"Just coming for a closer view of Billy's event," Mark said. He looked from Bridget to Wallaker, could see the tension on his face, in his posture, that was still receding. "Everything all right?"

"Fine," said Bridget. "Everything's just fine, isn't it?"

Wallaker nodded a little. "Just a slight issue I have with... spoons."

It was an obvious lie, one he didn't want to challenge or about which to cause a scene. Clearly he had taken her into his confidence about something, and he was certainly not entitled to confidences made between her and another person, but for some reason it irked him.

"Mummy! Dey're measurin'!"

Mabel's enthusiastic bouncing on his shoulders brought Mark out of his thoughts, which made him realise those thoughts were a bit ridiculous. Bridget didn't keep secrets from him. _Relax, Darcy_, he thought. _She probably just doesn't want to embarrass the man._

Their little group then turned to pay closer attention to the long jump. Soon it was Billy's turn; Bridget took and squeezed Mark's hand, and they both held their breath as he did his jump. As soon as he landed, they roared with a cheer.

"I think he did pretty well," said Wallaker in a quietly confident tone.

"Whether he wins or not, he's proud of himself, and I'm proud of him too," said Bridget. She looked to Mark with a smile and a wink. "We both are."

"Billeeeee!" shouted Mabel. "Daddy, lemme down, I wanna go see Billy!"

Mark did as asked; Bridget took his elbow and said, "A bit more Pimm's, I think. That girl gets my ears to ringing." With a smile he agreed and he walked with Bridget back to their blanket, hearing Mabel's distinctive voice the entire time; the gathering was restricted to students and parents, so neither were worried for her safety.

"Only a little bit," said Mark, pouring a generous splash into her cup. "The prizes will be given out soon."

She accepted it and took a sip. "Ohh, I am very glad you are driving," she said with a happy sigh.

As Mark had predicted, within a matter of minutes they were announcing the award ceremony's imminent start, so the two of them returned to where this was happening. Billy looked quite expectant; there had been a few more long-jumpers after he'd gone, but clearly he had hopes of coming in the top three in order to get a prize.

Unfortunately, Billy would be disappointed; the competition was fierce, the differences in jumping distance were apparently separated by inches. Billy came in fifth.

"It's okay," said Bridget, crouching to give him a slightly Pimm's-wobbly hug. "You did great."

"I really wanted a ribbon, though," Billy said, his sombre tone revealing how disappointed he was.

"If you want a ribbon," said Wallaker—there he was again, thought Mark; funny how he just kept turning up near their family, "you have to earn it."

Mark was just about to say that Billy was fully aware of that, but Bridget beat him to it. "Excuse me, _Mister_ Wallaker," she said, rising to her full height again and clearly pissed off, "but Billy knows very well that he has to earn it. He's not some kind of… spoiled brat or something."

"If he knows that," said Wallaker with a smirk, "you probably don't have to console him like he's just lost a limb. You'll be fine, won't you?"

Billy nodded; Mark would never say so out loud, but he found himself agreeing with Wallaker. Billy then surprised them all by saying, "It's kinda embarrassing, Mum."

To his relief, Bridget smiled, then chuckled. "I guess we're already to that age where you're too old for hugs from your mummy. I see how it is," she said with a grin, prompting chuckles from Mark and from Wallaker alike. Then she looked to Mark, amusement still twinkling in her eyes. "And I know what _you're_ thinking. Fine. Perhaps I overreacted."

"Mummy!" came Mabel's concerned voice. "You can hug me, instead!"

The way she stretched her arms up and out, coupled with such an earnest expression, was enough to melt even the coldest heart; Bridget crouched, took Mabel in her arms, picked her up and held on to her tightly. "I sure can," she said.

When the prizes were all awarded, they returned to their area to pack up the picnic then left the school together for home. As expected, the children crashed fast to sleep from the long day of activity; out of the corner of his eye he saw Bridget yawning too.

"So what was that all about?" he asked.

"What?"

"Back there with Mr Wallaker. After the starter pistol shot."

"Oh," she said. He waited for her to continue. "Well, you see…"

"Yeesss?" he prompted.

"The thing is, he took me into his confidence, Mark. The man does make me crazy, but I can't betray a confidence made in a vulnerable moment."

He brought the car to a red light, so he turned to look at her. She was clearly conflicted, so he decided to reach over and place his hand atop hers reassuringly. "I wouldn't dream of pressing the matter, darling," he said. "I was just concerned."

She returned the look and smiled. "Thanks," she said. "You know I would never keep anything critical from you."

"I wouldn't want you to go back on your word," he said.

"I'm glad you understand," she said.

He wouldn't ask again, but it didn't keep him from wondering. What would cause such a response? Former police? Former military? The haircut, the bearing, would suggest the latter.

Curious.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the nightmare returned that night more terrifying than ever before, yet Wallaker's presence—this time, trying to wrest control of the armoured vehicle from Anton, flesh and body parts shaking loose in the struggle—seemed to fit into the scene a lot more now.

…

"Are we gonna see pirates?"

This was the only question Billy had about a proposed planned trip to the south-western coast of England for a holiday.

"No pirates," said Bridget. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Not in Plymouth, no," said Mark. "Now, if we were going all the way to Penzance…"

At this Billy and Mabel both erupted with a desire to go to Penzance to see the pirates; Bridget shot Mark a dirty look and said, "Your father is teasing. There are no pirates in Penzance."

"Not anymore," Mark added.

"Daddeeeee," wailed Mabel. "Where did dey go?"

"Oh, love, I _am_ only teasing. Come here." He took his little girl into his arms. "We will go to the sea and look out across the water… and if you try very, very hard, and you're very, very quiet, you might even be able to see France."

Mabel's mouth dropped. "Really?"

"Really?" echoed Bridget.

He looked to Billy and winked; a recent homework assignment that Mark had helped Billy with had been about that area, and Mark knew Billy knew the truth that France was much too far from Plymouth to be seen. Clearly Bridget did not, but geography had never been her strong suit, anyway.

However, Mark's little tease would come back to haunt him within a few days; Bridget was exceedingly grumpy upon his arrival home from work. "Do you know, Mabel told Mr Wallaker that we were going to Plymouth and that while we were there, we were going to look at France… and he had the gall to say, 'See France from _Plymouth_? You must be mad.'"

"Oh?" Mark asked neutrally.

"So I told him that I have very, very sharp eyes," she said smugly. "That will teach him a lesson."

Mark assured her, then went to find Billy to tell him that he must never, ever tell his mum the truth about Plymouth and France.

"But I'm not supposed to lie," Billy said.

"In this instance," Mark said, "you may make an exception, on my authority as Dad."


	4. Chapter 4: Summer Nights and Seaside

**If Only…**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 34,644 in six chapters and an epilogue  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Summer Nights and Seaside Storms**

_Early July 2013_

With a holiday set for a week after the term let out at the end of July, there was nothing to be done but to wrap up all business before then. Mark in particular was so busy that when he went to bed in the evenings, he was too exhausted to dream. With no dreams, of course, came no nightmares, but the images were still very fresh in his mind, and flashes of them would often pop up at the most inopportune times.

Like during his son Billy's summer concert.

After a day of preparation, the drive to Capthorpe House, which was the site of the summer concert, was rather uneventful. Mabel seemed to think they were on their way to their holiday and kept looking out the window, convinced she could see France. Thanks to the satnav's accuracy, though, they made it there in good time, and they had their choice of patch of ground in the garden in which to set up their stuff.

"Nice the see the whole family turn out."

Mark turned to see Wallaker approaching; he glanced down to Mabel, offering her a smile. "Came to see if Billy needed a hand with his bassoon."

"Yes, that'd be nice, thanks," said Bridget. "Nice place for the concert—how'd you land it?"

"I've got an inside connection," he said with a wink. "It's my family's. Come on, Billy, let's get backstage." With a nod, and a long parting look towards Bridget, he and Billy walked away.

It took Mark by surprise that the venue for the concert belonged to Wallaker's family, even more so that Wallaker was running the concert. "Did you know he was in charge of the music programme?"

She nodded. "I didn't know it was going to be at his family's digs, though."

With strict instructions to Mabel for her to stay nearby, Mark unpacked the meal and they nibbled on their picnic dinner; Bridget sipped from the glass of chardonnay, looking very happy and relaxed, the breeze lifting up and playing with her hair. Mabel sat cheerfully picking at the apple slices and ate half of her sandwich. Billy came by, stuffed some cheese and crackers into his mouth, then ran back to the stage area again.

"Billy," called Bridget after him, to no avail.

"Darling, he's too excited to eat more right now. He'll be ravenous later."

Not long after polishing their dinner off, the chair of the concert came out to heap praise upon Mr Wallaker. Bridget leaned over to say quietly to Mark, "_That's_ Nicolette."

"Ah," was all Mark could respond. He could see what Bridget had meant; she reminded Mark very much of Wallaker's wife, except perhaps a little bit younger, or at least with a better plastic surgeon.

After her talk, the performances began; they were what one might expect from a bunch of Junior-branch-aged children, eager and earnest but ever so slightly off-tempo or out of tune. With nervous anticipation, he awaited Billy's number.

As soon as the song began, an musical introduction by Wallaker on the piano, he recognised the song; it was "I'd Do Anything" from _Oliver!_, and it was a song he'd heard it countless times before (the film was one of Mabel's very favourites). However, that night, in the cool of the evening, in the intimacy of the venue, at the sight and sound of Billy playing it, he felt like all of reality was slipping away, like everything was pinprick-focused on Billy on the stage and everything was dark and fuzzy on the edges. How close his son and his daughter had come to not having a father. How one split-second decision about a phone call had decided whether he would live or die. Before his eyes came the flashes, as if the landmine explosion was there before him. Suddenly he sat up straight, rubbed his eyes, surprising himself at the wetness he found there. _I'd do anything_, _I'd go anywhere_, he thought, _and I'll never put myself in that kind of danger again._

He heard his name as if from far away, a hushed panic in the tone, then a slight shoulder-shaking which brought him out of it. He realised it had been Bridget speaking to him, and the look of concern was obvious. Quietly, she asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he said, his voice surprisingly tremulous. "Just fine. Quite moved by the piece, is all."

Bridget looked to him a moment more, offered a smile, then turned back to the stage as the next piece began. He was relieved he had been able to mask his state of mind, the terror and panic he'd felt during what was supposed to be a pleasant, proud moment, mixed with the deep guilt he felt about it; he had, after all, failed to keep his promise to her about seeking help, and that was something he could not recall ever doing before.

At the conclusion of the final musical number, as they stood, she said brightly, "Let's go find Billy, tell him what a great job he's done!" Before he could say a word or ask what the hurry was, she was heading towards the stage area. He scooped up Mabel into his arms and headed after his wife.

Mark caught her up in time to see her crouching to give Billy a tight hug, then peck his cheek; she drew back to look at him, broad smile on her face and tears in her eyes. "You were wonderful!" she said as she stood up again.

"Billy, utterly fantastic," Mark said with a smile, clapping him on the shoulder with his one free hand. "Well done."

"Thanks, Dad," said Billy, his grin huge and beaming.

"Mark, sorry… watch the children," said Bridget suddenly. "I'll be right back." After a pause she added, "Just… need the loo." She then dashed off in the direction of the main house.

"Mummy must really have to go bad," said Billy, which made Mark chuckle even as he admonished the boy for saying it a little too loudly.

He made small talk with some of the other parents, but it started to dawn on him that Bridget had been gone an awfully long time; long enough that it was starting to concern him, and he decided that he would go looking for her. They headed back to the area where they had been picnicking. Billy started to run around with his friends, and Mark asked Farzia if she minded keeping an eye on Billy and Mabel for a few minutes while he went to find Bridget.

"No, of course not," she said, beaming a smile up at him.

"I appreciate it."

It was full dark by now, though the moon was rising in the sky, casting its silvery glow over the grounds. Mark stopped, got his bearings, could see the house then made off towards it, alert for her presence.

He was approaching the side of the house where the sign pointed towards the availability of toilets when movement caught his eye in the hedge along the wall beyond the door, and he slowed down; the sound of sniffing, crying, a quiet, tremulous voice brought him to a full stop.

Then another deeper voice speaking, though he could not make out the words, before a figure emerged from the hedge. Mark jumped back out of sight.

Wallaker, brows drawn, a look of utter concentration on his face as he made for the house's door, then went inside. Bridget came forth, too, and Mark's mind raced at what could possibly have been going on in the hedge there. He trusted her fidelity implicitly, but was very confused until he saw her bring her hand up to one side of her face then the other in an instantly recognisable movement. She was wiping tears away from under her eyes.

A fury unlike one he'd felt in some time flared up within him: that man had made her cry. He hastened towards her and at the sight of him, she looked taken aback.

"What is going on?" he asked, trying to contain his voice.

"Nothing, it's nothing," she said.

"Your crying in a hedge is not nothing, Bridget," Mark said, straining to keep the anger out of his tone. "What did he say to you?"

"_What?_" she asked. "He—_nothing_, he said nothing."

Mark thought of the attraction Wallaker had so obviously displayed and quickly asked, "What did he _do_ then? Did he try… something with you?"

"No!" she said, exasperated. "That's outrageous."

His jaw tensed in his anxiety. "So you're just crying for no reason."

Her eyes were wide and glossy as if she might cry again. "I didn't say that."

What the hell was that supposed to mean? "Bridget, tell me what's going on, because I don't understand—"

Mark stopped short at hearing footsteps approaching; it was Wallaker, bearing a glass of what looked like water.

"Oh, hello," Wallaker said with unexpected casualness. "I was just bringing this to B—your wife."

"Thank you, Mr Wallaker," she said, reaching for the proffered glass, and taking a long sip.

"You're going to be all right, then, aren't you?" Wallaker said, then looked to Mark briefly before adding, "You're in good hands."

"I know I am." She handed the glass back to Wallaker. "And yes, I'll be fine. Thanks for the water."

"Happy to oblige," he said. "Listen, it's a nice night; why don't the two of you have a little walk together around the grounds? I'll make sure Billy and Mabel are all right."

Mark was so surprised by the conversation, so confused, that he didn't say a word; he probably looked as dumbfounded as he felt. What exactly had happened there in the hedge? Before he could think about it too much, he felt Bridget take his arm and say, "That sounds nice; thank you."

They began to walk away just as Nicolette came looking for Wallaker, to ask him if he wanted to say a few parting words, but the rest of it was lost as they moved farther apart from them.

"I left them with Farzia," said Mark. "The children, I mean. To see where you'd gone to."

"Ah," she said.

He drew his arm away and instead slipped it around her shoulders as they walked; he pondered asking her again about what had happened in the hedge, or what had happened prior—

And then like a bolt it came to him. Just as he had been thinking of Billy, thinking of how different things would have been for them had he not returned from Sudan, surely she had been thinking something similar, too. He felt terrible for having not seen it, for having allowed her to run away to cry alone in the moonlight, for leaving another man to come along to help, to come to her rescue, even if it were only a glass of water.

He stopped walking and she did too; he turned to her, placed his hand against her cheek, and said, "I'm sorry. I love you."

Tears ran down over her cheeks again but she smiled, and received the kiss he bent to give her without hesitation or reservation.

"Come on," she said, stroking the back of his neck with her fingers, her cheek pressed against his, "let's get the children and on the road home."

"I like the sound of that."

…

_Late July 2013_

Soon enough the school term was over, and they were packing their things to head out for their rented cabin for the next fortnight, which was situated near the coast just outside Plymouth. According to everything they had read and the pictures they'd seen online, the place was a perfect pastoral getaway, with a garden for the children to play in, fields of wildflowers to traipse through, and enough fresh sea air to practically guarantee the children would sleep solidly through the night… and the adults could have peace, quiet, and maybe even some intimate privacy.

Upon their arrival after the long drive, the majority of which they spent sleeping, Billy and Mabel scrambled out of the car as quickly as possible, and were both in silent, open-mouthed awe to see the place, like Dorothy viewing a vividly coloured Oz for the very first time. They immediately began running in circles around the garden as their parents unloaded the boot.

"It smells funny here," said Billy as he stopped to catch his breath, as the adults brought the last of the bags towards the cabin.

"Funny how?" asked Mark.

"Dunno," said Billy, sniffing audibly. "It just does."

"Probably because there aren't cars about, it's clean," Mark said. "And we're close to the sea, so it smells a bit salty."

Mabel took in a great big breath, then declared, "Bit fishy too."

Inspecting the interior yielded equal enthusiasm, with the array of windows, through which sunlight poured; the warm wooden floors, plush furniture, and the all-around homey interior. The loo elicited absolute glee; Mabel exclaimed, "Mummeeee, the bathtub's a cow!" Indeed, the white claw foot tub had giant black spots painted on it, very much like a Holstein, which delighted both children.

"I can't wait to take a bath!" declared Billy.

"That's a first," quipped Bridget.

"I wanna live here foreverrrr!" shrieked Mabel as she ran about, waving her arms over her head.

"Wait until they find out there's no McDonald's just 'round the corner," mused Bridget.

"I don't know, there might well be," said Mark. "They seem to be everywhere."

"I sort of hope there's not."

The cabin had two bedrooms; one with a double bed, and one with two twins; it was obvious even to Billy which one of the two were for his sister and him. "Mabel, you can pick which bed you like," he said, in a magnanimous moment.

"Mmmm," Mabel said, bringing her little finger to her mouth in a gesture that was in perfect imitation of her father. "I want de one by de window. In case de owls come by to visit."

Bridget chuckled. "Not sure there are owls here, sweetheart."

"In _case_ dere are." Mabel climbed up on to the bed to look out of the window, mesmerised. "We hafta look for de France, too."

"Right," Mark chuckled. "We sure do."

The kitchen had been pre-stocked with local milk, butter, bread, and some other basics, along with vouchers for a discount with the local butcher's. "That sounds marvellous," said Bridget. "Doing a barbecue, roasting vegetables… we can do a shop at the market we passed on our way in."

"Tomorrow," said Mark. "Tonight we can go to the pub we passed."

To tide the children over, Bridget buttered some bread and poured some milk for them; they declared it the best they'd ever had.

Mabel said in that matter-of-fact tone she liked to adopt, "I know where de milk came from—de cow in dere."

It took them a moment to figure out what she meant, and when they did, they had to fight not to laugh out loud.

After their snack, the excitement of the day seemed to catch up with the kids all at once, and in another unprecedented move, with big yawns overtaking their little faces, volunteered to go and take a nap in their designated beds.

"Without even having to be asked," Mark said, impressed. "This is the perfect holiday already."

They took the opportunity to go out into the garden; Mark took in a deep breath of that intoxicating sea air as Bridget slipped her arm around his waist. He reciprocated by embracing her shoulders. "Quite perfect," she murmured.

"Mmm," he said, agreeing. "Come, let's have a sit and enjoy the silence."

He took her by the hand and led her to the covered bench swing on the edge of the patio stones, which afforded them a vista of stunning natural beauty, looking out over the bay at the distant waves gently undulating, the blue sky just with a smattering of wispy clouds, as they swung back and forth, content in each others' embrace.

He supposed it was inevitable that with all of this, the length of the drive, the pleasantly cool breeze, that they should both drift to sleep, too. It was Mabel climbing up onto the seat beside Mark that brought him back to wakefulness.

"Hi, Daddy," she said sweetly, still sleepy, putting her arms around his neck. "Dere you are. I couldn't find you."

"I'm so sorry, darling," he said, feeling downright neglectful.

Bridget woke too and offered reassurances. "We didn't mean to fall asleep out here," Bridget said as Mark sat his daughter on his lap and kissed the top of Mabel's head.

"I'd never go away, darling," Mark said tenderly.

"Did Billy wake up, too?" asked Bridget.

Mabel nodded. "He put on de telly."

Mark chuckled. "Of course he did."

After a few moments of looking out at the water, Mabel asked, looking up at her father, "Is dat de sea?"

"Mm-hm."

"Oh," she said. "It doesn't look dat big."

He laughed. "We're only seeing a small part of it. Come on, let's go indoors." He stood, held Mabel in his arms. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes," answered Bridget. "Let's go back to that pub."

With that special bloodhound-like talent Billy seemed to possess, he had managed find the remote controls, turn on the television and find SpongeBob. Not looking away from the screen, he said with that total unconcern borne from knowing that his parents hadn't gone far, "There you are."

"Did you have a nice nap?" asked Bridget.

"Yep."

"Ready for dinner?"

"Yep."

"Television off," said Mark, "and please say 'yes', not 'yep', when your mum asks you a question."

"Okay; sorry, Dad." He pointed the remote control and the television went off.

They had a jolly time at the pub. Mabel and Billy shared the largest plate of fish and chips they'd ever seen; Bridget had an enormous chicken pasty and a glass of white wine which went to her head much more quickly than usual. Mark settled for a single pint of bitter along with a steak and new potatoes; if this meat was any indication of what was in store at the butcher's, he would be glad to part with his money there, discount or not.

Mark could hardly believe the children had room for pudding, but they polished off a serving of pear/apple/ginger crumble between the two of them. Even Bridget managed to put away most of a serving of sticky toffee pudding cheesecake before conceding defeat.

"Ooof, you're gonna need to roll me out of here like a giant blueberry," Bridget said, sitting back in her chair and patting her stomach. "But oh, that was a fan_tas_tic meal."

"Yes, indeed." Mark glanced over, saw Mabel fighting to stay awake. Mark nodded in her direction. "If we're all done, perhaps it's time we head back to our cabin."

She nodded. "Get ready to roll me," she said, winking.

He carried Mabel to the car, while Bridget shepherded a clearly sleepy Billy back to the car. On the short drive back to the cabin, the two of them fell asleep, and Bridget yawned. "Stop that," he teased. "We can't all fall asleep."

After carrying them into the house—Mark with Billy, Bridget had Mabel—without speaking, they stripped off the children's clothes and put them into their pyjamas, and got them tucked under their sheets.

"Bedtime for us, too. I can barely stay awake," said Bridget, yawning again.

"Mm," he said, agreeing, though it didn't surprise him in the least when, after slipping under the sheets, with the silence of the remoteness of their cabin, she pressed herself to him, kissed him, ran her fingers over the bare skin of his chest, all of which he could not resist. As if he wanted to.

He slept as soundly as the brochures had promised; any dreams were pleasant ones, even if they couldn't compare with the reality of their first day of holiday. When he awoke the next morning, fully refreshed, it touched his heart to see that Mabel had joined them during the night, and was curled up to Bridget, who had her arm protectively around her baby.

With a grin, he rose and decided to make coffee and breakfast; he predicted that once the coffee began brewing and the bacon frying, Bridget would rise, too, and he wasn't wrong.

"Look at you," said Bridget appreciatively as she came into the kitchen wrapped in her dressing gown; he stood there in his pyjama bottoms and tee shirt, pushing the bacon around in the pan. "You're a darling."

He looked to her and grinned. "Good morning, missus."

She came up to him, put her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Mmmm," she said in an almost purr.

From the other room, he heard Billy exclaim, "Bacon! Mabel, wake up—there's _bacon!_"

The two of them could only laugh.

…

As holidays go, this one was one of the best they'd ever had; the children had plenty to do and explore every day; they took short drives into Plymouth and neighbouring towns to investigate; they went down to the coast itself to watch the waves crash into the rocks. He was going to be sorry to have to leave. It was wonderful to not have to think of working, of responsibilities. Everything was on hold.

So he thought.

He supposed the nightmare must have been triggered by the fleeting glimpse of the headline they passed at the newsstand while walking through Plymouth, a bomb taking out part of a peace delegation's motorcade in Syria. Fleeting though his exposure to the headline had been, it had obviously made an impact, as the images in his mind of that armoured vehicle yet again—this time, it was that he could not persuade Bridget and the children not to get in, and the vehicle sped away from him, driving off with his family to the bright flash and booming explosion of the landmine's detonation—brought him out of a dead sleep with a scream that startled a terrified Bridget awake.

The scream sent both Mabel and Billy to shrieking from the other bedroom. Bridget gave him a quick pained look before throwing back the covers and racing to them. He took in a deep breath, swallowed, then followed her.

"Daddy'th hurt! I just _know_ it!" Mabel wailed from Bridget's arms as he came into the room. Billy was bawling uncontrollably, also in her embrace.

"Hey, hey, it's all right," Mark said, joining the three of them; it was then he noticed that Bridget was crying too. He wrapped his arms around them all. "Shhhh," he murmured, stroking Mabel's wild hair, then Billy's, then he reached to touch Bridget's face.

"You promised, Mark," she said in a shaky whisper; it was all she needed to say.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I thought—"

_They were gone, thought they weren't coming back_, he told himself, but at that moment, Mabel interrupted, her voice surprisingly firm and angry, even as she threw her arms around his neck and hugged her father fiercely:

"Don't _scare_ me like dat, Daddy! I thought you got _stabbed_ or something!"

Billy was still crying inconsolably.

"I'm so sorry to frighten you all," he said. "Billy, come here; you can see I'm just fine."

Billy turned his big brown eyes to his father, lower lip trembling, tears on the verge of spilling over. "What if you weren't?" he asked. "You almost got blowed up once."

His son knew the proper English grammar, but the slip showed the depth of his fears. Mark had no idea that Billy knew anything about the near-miss in Sudan simply because he'd been so young at the time it had happened. From the look on Bridget's face, it was clear she didn't know Billy knew, either. Firmly, Mark said, "Billy. Please come here." With Mabel still clinging to him, he reached out a hand to his son. His own heart was still racing. "I've said I'm sorry and I _am_."

With the baleful look still in place, Billy finally acceded, and crawled forward to throw his arms around his father, sobbing again. As Mark held his children tightly to him, as Bridget embraced him, pressed up against his back, he began to sob, too.

"Come on," she whispered, close to his ear. "Let's all of us go snuggle back to sleep."

"What if I…" he began to ask, but trailed off. She knew what he didn't say: _have another nightmare_.

"With all of us there," she said confidently, "you won't."

The two children were light enough that he was able to carry them both back to the main bedroom—particularly as they were still attached to him like barnacles—and with one curled securely into the crook of each arm, the children quickly fell back to sleep, tears still damp on their cheeks.

Bridget was next to Mabel, and reached up to comb her fingers soothingly through Mark's hair. "I'm sorry," Mark said feebly, feeling guilt not only for not keeping his promise, but for putting them all through this, especially during their blissful holiday.

She didn't reply, or if she did, he had already fallen to sleep. Fortunately, she had been right: he did not dream of horror again.

…

The last two days of their holiday would prove to not completely spoilt by the nightmare incident, for which he was thankful, though Billy did seem more subdued than he had been. Mark wondered how Billy had discovered what had almost happened in Sudan, but with the pervasiveness of the internet, he really should have expected it; in fact, he should have explained it all before Billy had had a chance to otherwise discover it accidentally. Mark had never even considered the potential impact, and he could have kicked himself for allowing that detail to escape him.

On their last afternoon at the cabin, he and Billy walked alone through the field of wildflowers while Mabel helped Bridget pack up the suitcase; Mark would return to help, but he wanted a little time to talk to his son before they returned to London.

"Hey, Billy," Mark said, placing his hand on his son's shoulder. "About the other night… I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Dad," Billy said as he turned around and looked up, squinting with the sun in his eyes. In that moment, the way he looked to his father, Billy seemed so very grown up.

"No, I mean… I'm _sorry_. I should have discussed what happened in… well, it's clear you found out I was meant to be in that vehicle. I never meant to keep it a secret from you. I hope you know that. I just…" He paused. Had he ever considered the day when he'd talk to Billy about what had nearly happened? He had not; not in any serious way. "Well, you're just… it's a lot for someone your age to absorb."

Billy nodded. "I know."

Mark crouched down to meet Billy's eye at his own level. "I'm not taking any other jobs far away from home," he said. "You know that too, right?"

Billy nodded again.

"And we don't have a lot of… well, _attacks_ in London."

"Landmines," corrected Billy, which made Mark inwardly cringe, though was careful not to show it.

"Yes," Mark said, then paused to swallow the lump in his throat. "It's just that sometimes, daddies have bad dreams, too."

"I know."

"I just don't want you to think I'm going anywhere anytime soon. Okay?"

Billy seemed to be studying Mark's features. Suddenly Billy reached forward and threw his arms around Mark's neck, causing Mark to nearly lose his balance, but he was able to steady himself. "I hope the bad dreams don't come back and bother you, Daddy," Billy said tenderly.

"I hope so, too," Mark said, his voice cracking as he spoke, cradling the boy's head at the nape with his hand. He didn't want to let his son go, but knew they had to return. Back to the cabin, back to London, where he had the daunting task of dealing with a problem he was ill-equipped to handle.

It was Billy who drew away first. "Well, come on, Dad, or Mum will pitch a wobbly."

Mark smiled, then laughed, as he stood upright again. Who exactly was the parent, here? "Too right, Billy. Too right." He ran his hand over Billy's hair, made a mental note to take him for a haircut. "Let's walk back."

As it turned out, getting the suitcases all packed up took them very little time—Bridget's theory was that since it all needed laundering, there was no point in folding and organising it, and he had to admit she had a point—so the boys were assigned the task of getting them into the boot.

"Leave room for the meat," she said; they intended on picking up a bit more beef from the butcher on their way home, then having a barbeque upon their arrival.

"Yes, ma'am," he said dutifully.

Within twenty minutes, after a final sweep of the cabin then the stop at the butcher's, they were on their way; Mabel was whiny and began to cry, saying that Saliva would miss the cabin so very much.

"We can come back again," said Bridget, reaching into the back of the car and patting her daughter's knee.

"We have to," said Mabel. "We never saw de France."

It was something Mark had hoped she would forget, but she hadn't. Every time they'd gone to the coast, the clouds had rolled in, frustrating her. "Very true," said Bridget. "We can't give Mr Wallaker the satisfaction."

Someday, thought Mark, he would tell Bridget the truth of it. But not that day.


	5. Chapter 5: An Unexpected Resource

**If Only…**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 34,644 in six chapters and an epilogue  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 5: An Unexpected Resource**

_August 2013_

Figuring out what to do about the nightmares was a daunting task. He wanted to hold up his end of the bargain with Bridget, but he saw little point in returning to the same therapist that he'd seen previously. He kept meaning to call him, at least as a starting point; maybe the therapist would have further suggestions. Or maybe talking to the therapist again would actually do some good—maybe he should give it a second chance, after all.

He picked up the phone, determined to make progress on this frustrating, nebulous problem.

"Oh, hello, Mr Darcy," said the chirpy voice of the scheduling assistant; Mark was surprised she remembered him after four and a half years. "What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping to schedule an appointment with Dr Greenwood."

"Oh, sorry, sir, but Dr Greenwood has retired," she said, typing away. "His replacement is very competent, though, and is taking new patients."

She paused, obviously waiting for an answer, but he was at a loss at what to say. He had wanted someone who was already familiar with him, with his background and situation. He didn't want to have to start over again.

The typing stopped. "Sir? Are you still there?"

"Yes. Sorry. I… will have to get back to you on that."

"All right, sir. Looking forward to hearing from you."

Mark put down the phone. It was not as if the man hadn't a right to retire, nor had the retirement been intended as a personal affront to him, yet Mark was feeling irrationally upset and discombobulated.

"I'll just see the new doctor," he said aloud to no one but himself. "No big deal."

Yet he did not pick up the phone and call the number again.

…

_September, 2013_

Mark had never seen Bridget look quite so angry, frustrated, concerned or upset. The worst of it was that she had every right to be.

It was the first day of the new term, the first week of the month, and when she returned from taking the children to school, she had found him in the kitchen, grasping the breakfast nook, shaking and sweating, unable to move, looking as pale as a ghost. Unlike a nightmare, from which he could wake up and escape to safety and security, there had been nothing he could do but hope the panic and paralysis would subside before she returned and he was discovered.

He had not been so lucky.

He was not even sure what had brought it on. Sending the children back to school, where he had little control over their day? The thought of returning to work, after months of handling minor litigation, to handle another intense asylum case?

At last she spoke. Her voice was unsteady, but serious. "I'm at my wit's end, Mark. I can't help you if you don't help yourself."

"I know," he said.

After a moment more, she set her handbag down and went over to him, prying his fingers up from the edge of the counter, then taking him in her arms. He felt himself melt into her embrace as she started to sob. "I don't know what else to do," she said desperately.

"I'll take care of it," he said, knowing it was as pathetic as it sounded even as he said it. He regretted it immediately.

She pushed away from him, anger to the forefront in an instant. "When, Mark?" she said. "You've been saying this for months now, _promising_ this. Maybe even years—I can't honestly remember. I haven't wanted to pester you about it, because… I didn't want you to…" She hesitated, clearly frustrated. "Maybe I should have pestered you. You've done nothing to help yourself."

She was absolutely right. Quietly he said, "I'm sorry."

"So if you're as sorry as you keep saying you are," she said, "take out your mobile right this instant. If you're not sure who to talk to, call Tom, for fuck's sake."

"I can't call Tom," Mark shot back.

"Why?" she said. "Because you can't have friends know you're having problems?"

"As a matter of fact—"

"No, I won't hear it. Stop it. It's the most ridiculous thing—" The sounds of her escalating voice stopped abruptly, and she brought her hand to her face. "You're inventing reasons to avoid doing it, Mark. Making excuses. Every suggestion I make, you shoot down. Short of making the call for you, forcibly dragging you to an appointment…" She trailed off, raising teary eyes to him. "I don't think I can do anything more, Mark, short of threatening divorce."

His mouth went dry. Surely she would not actually leave him. "Bridget. What are you saying?"

"I can't go on like this, Mark. The children can't _ever_ find you like this. The nightmare was bad enough. This would destroy them." She brought her hand to her mouth, then began weeping into her hands. Her voice was fragile now. "I love you more than anything in the world, but…"

He ran his down hands over his face. "I…" _Will do whatever you ask_, he thought; _I'd fix this, if I only knew what to do._ "…should get to chambers."

She looked up at him, her tear-streaked face breaking his heart as he had surely just broken hers. "Sure, why not," she said, deflated. "After all, nothing's wrong, is it?"

"Bridget…"

"No, go on. If you ignore it, it'll go away," she said. "That's worked _so_ well for you in the past." She sniffed, wiped under her eyes. "I'll see you later."

Without so much as a kiss goodbye, she turned and walked out of the kitchen.

He picked up his attaché, made sure his wallet and keys were in his pocket, and then left the house, slipping behind the wheel of his car, making the drive as easily as he had hundreds of times before.

He didn't know how long he sat in the car, staring at the wall, at his name on the sign proclaiming the parking space as his. It was entirely possible he was in the midst of another panic attack; he couldn't move, frozen with terror at the thought of going into his office.

He loved his work. It had been his respite so many times in the past, so this was particularly upsetting to him, along with the guilt he felt for worrying Bridget. Scaring the children.

_Be a man, Darcy. Go do your job. Do one bloody thing right._

He rose from the vehicle and went into work; he offered perfunctory good mornings to the people he passed by, went directly into his office, then closed the door. His heart raced.

Mark gave his work a good effort, tried to revise briefs for the upcoming week, but his attention span was non-existent. This too was increasingly worrying to him, to the point where he had to set it aside for fear of making a mess of it. He tried reading the newspaper but that, too, only increased his stress levels.

Somehow it had gotten to noon, and despite not having had any breakfast, he found he wasn't the least bit hungry when he knew he should be. Rather than continue the façade of working, he realised that at least for now, the best thing would be to go out and get some food into him. Nourishment might help his ability to focus. Maybe once he'd eaten, he could actually get something done in the afternoon; he could call the therapist, try to get an appointment with Dr Greenwood's replacement. Doing this, at least, would show Bridget he was making an effort when he saw her that evening, and she wouldn't need to bring up the spectre of divorce again.

That was his intent, anyway. He'd picked up a sandwich and a can of sparkling water, went to a bench near the water in Regent's Park and sat to eat. Somehow, though, he never did. Though he could not recall the time passing, a glance to his watch told him an hour and a half had in fact gone by; the sandwich was still sitting wrapped on his lap and the drink had gone lukewarm.

And he had company beside him on the bench.

It took him a moment to realise that he knew who it was that was sitting there, dressed in a tee-shirt, trackie bottoms, and gleaming new trainers, perspiring as if he'd run all the way across town. He may as well have.

"Mr Darcy," he said casually. "Fancy meeting you here."

Mark blinked, wondering if he'd actually gone so far as to have hallucinations. "Mr Wallaker."

He nodded. "If you're not going to eat that, I'm sure the birds would love to have a go." He studied Mark intently. "Everything all right? I come running here most Mondays, and I didn't expect to see you in the middle of Regent's Park on a Monday, especially not staring out at the pond."

"Fine," said Mark. "I'm fine."

"May be impertinent of me to say so," Wallaker said, "but you don't look fine. You look… wrecked."

Mark couldn't help muttering a mirthless laugh. "It's been a difficult day."

"From what I hear," he said, pausing to take a long draw from a water bottle he had with him, "it's been a difficult five _years_."

Mark bristled. "From what you hear?"

"You and I have something in common," Wallaker said. "Though I doubt you realise it. Back on the Sports Day—"

"Stop being so bloody cryptic, Wallaker," interrupted Mark impatiently, fighting off the absurd notion that Bridget was the 'something' in common, ashamed it had even come to mind. "Get to the point. What have we got in common?"

"There's a point to my meandering," he said. "Sports Day. The starter pistol."

"Let me guess," said Mark. "You don't really have a problem with spoons."

"Indeed," Wallaker said. "See, your wife was being kind, trying to protect my feelings, my privacy, I don't know… I'd just blurted out, quite without thinking, why I tend to react like that when surprised by a starter pistol."

"You were a police officer." Wallaker shook his head. Mark added, "Army."

"Sort of. SAS."

Mark didn't think anything could surprise him, but this did; his brows rose.

Wallaker continued. "Served in Afghanistan. I don't like to acknowledge it, let alone talk about specific events. There is one in particular I wish to God I _could_ forget." He leaned forward, his voice taking on a more confidential tone as he spoke again. "But I'm willing to talk about it with you to demonstrate that I understand what it's like to deal with post-traumatic stress."

"I'm not suffering from post-traumatic stress," said Mark. "Nothing traumatic actually happened."

"I beg to differ," he said, holding up his hand. "Okay, so obviously you did not _directly_ experience a landmine explosion. But you have so often imagined the horrors and the pain of what it might have been like, what it _must_ have been like, that as you've made it almost as real for your brain."

"Did Bridget tell you this?"

"She didn't have to tell me anything," Wallaker said. "I have relived real experiences enough—I imagine obsessing on the death you narrowly escaped has got to be nearly as bad."

"Obsessing?"

"It's not a judgment," he said. "It's just the best word I can think of to describe thinking about it, again and again, as much as you must have done. I've done it myself. Obsessed on whether I might have minimised collateral loss if only I'd—well, no matter. We're not talking about me."

Mark looked back out over the water, did not say anything for many moments. 'Obsessed' actually was fairly accurate, after all, given how he'd analysed the events from every angle, wondering if he could have done anything to prevent Anton from going, if there'd been any clues to the impending attack that he should have seen….

"So…" Mark said, trailing off, his voice was gravelly, his throat closing with emotion; tears welled. _Traitorous body_, he thought, irritated and frustrated.

"So," said Wallaker. "What do you do now? That's the big question."

"Yes."

"Well, wanting help is the first step—"

"I've wanted help all along," said Mark.

"If you have, from what I can tell, you haven't been very serious about it."

Mark glanced down. "I went to a therapist."

"Granted," he said. "But it was someone who didn't treat you like you were suffering from PTSD, even though they bloody well should have noticed it." Wallaker grumbled. "No matter. I can give you the name of the doctor who treated me. Talk to her. If her clinic can't help, then no one can. They have an amazing arsenal—er, no pun intended—of therapies to draw on."

Mark nodded; suddenly, he felt lighter. Happier. There was hope where none had been before. He even started to feel a bit hungry, and with trembling fingers picked at the edge of the butcher paper, though with the warmth of the day, even under the shade of the trees, he wasn't sure if it was something he should risk eating.

The doubt must have shown on his face.

"Tell you what," Wallaker said. "Let me buy you a pint. A late lunch."

"I…" He stopped, suddenly remembering it was the start of the new term. "Don't you have to get back to the school?"

"My Monday afternoons are free, coincidentally enough."

Mark wasn't totally sure there was a coincidence involved, but he accepted the invitation on the condition that he be allowed to buy the lunch. "As a… thank you."

"You don't have to thank me—"

"I do," Mark said. "You have no idea how grateful I am."

At this, Wallaker seemed uncharacteristically speechless.

There was a pub just near where Mark had parked his car, so they went inside, and quickly had two pints in front of them and burgers and chips on order. Mark drank the first pint a lot faster than he should have done on an empty stomach, but called for a second all the same.

"Easy there," joked Wallaker.

"It's fine, I'm fine," Mark said. "The second is for the food."

"It is fairly good bitter," conceded Wallaker, who also took a long draw to finish his pint, and ordered a second as well.

When the food arrived, he felt like he was shovelling forkfuls into his mouth, and had more than just the one additional pint; as if not to be outdone, Wallaker kept pace with him. The atmosphere, the camaraderie, was warm, friendly, comfortable. Comforting. It didn't hurt that they were both equally, pleasantly pissed.

"Shouldn't surprise me she was right all along."

Mark narrowed his gaze, heard Pam Jones' voice scold _Pardon_ in his head as he said, "Huh?"

"Your wife. She wanted to ask you about help, prod you more, but I told her not to nag," Wallaker said. "Told her you'd do it in good time, that nagging you would just make you dig your heels in. I made a mistake. She was right. You needed a push." He sulked in his chair a bit. "She always seems to be bloody right."

Strange time to bring up Bridget. And when had they talked about this? The hedge? "Have a question for you, Mr Wallaker," Mark blurted.

"Scott."

"What?"

"Call me Scott."

"Okay, Scott," Mark said. "And it's Mark."

"I know."

"Call me Mark, I mean."

"Right."

"So, the question. And you have to be totally, _totally_ honest."

"Shoot." Wallaker pointed his finger and mimed a thumb-trigger.

"_Scott_, are you attracted to my wife?"

Wallaker looked stunned, but quickly recovered. "As a matter of fact, _Mark_… yes, I am," he said, with complete candour. "I mean… I'd have to be oblivious not to find her attractive—but I'm not stupid enough to try to do anything about it."

Mark lifted his glass in a 'cheers' gesture. "Appreciate the honesty," he said, then took a sip. "Confidentially, I thought you might be. She has no idea, though."

Wallaker chuckled, then laughed.

"No, really," he said. "She never even realised I found her attractive until… well. I had to be pretty bloody blatant about it." Mark felt his skin flood over with embarrassment. What was he saying? Why was he rambling on like this? He must have been more in his cups than he thought.

"Sounds like quite a tale," Wallaker said, laughing again; Mark realised that he, too, must have been plastered. "How _did_ you meet?"

Mark had no rein on his tongue, and the whole story came tumbling out: the meeting at the Turkey Curry Buffet nearly nineteen years ago, through the misunderstandings and false starts, and then the catalyst that was the Portugal palaver… "And finally, it all came to a head on Christmas Day, after which I whisked her off to Hintlesham Hall… and she still hadn't guessed until I… dropped a fairly obvious hint. Asked her why she thought I'd done all those things for her mum."

"And you've been together since?"

"Well… there was one small hiccup at the start, but… smooth sailing after that."

"Dammit," Wallaker said unexpectedly.

Mark chuckled. "You sound like Mabel. Why 'dammit'?"

He looked to Mark. "Why'd you have to turn out to be such a decent chap?" he asked wryly, undoubtedly intending to make light, but it seemed there was a core of truth to it. "Aw, dammit. The time."

It was nearly six in the evening, and Mark was in no condition to get behind the wheel. "Hell," said Mark. He reached in his suit jacket pocket for his mobile and remembered that he'd left it in his attaché, which was on his desk. Which was in his office. At the other end of a car drive. "Buggering fuck," he muttered.

"What?"

"Left the mobile behind."

Wallaker shoved his hand into his pocket, then towards Mark. "Use mine."

It was practically a relic as mobile phones went; flip-style with a tiny screen, the opposite of what one would call a 'smart phone'. Mark squinted at the blurry numbers—from a lack of reading specs or from the alcohol, it was difficult to tell—and punched in what he hoped was Bridget's mobile number.

"Hello?" came the query after three rings. _Thank God_, he thought. _A familiar voice._

"Bridget, darling, it's me."

After a long pause, she said, "Mark?"

"I should hope no one else would be that familiar with you," he said flippantly, then cleared his throat and tried to be more serious. "I need an enormous favour. But first. I'm really sorry about this morning. I was an arse."

"Mark, are you… pissed?" He couldn't tell if she was angry or amused. "Where are you? Whose phone are you calling from?"

None of the above: she was scared. "I'm fine, really. I'm in a pub with Mr Walla…laker." He had a hard time getting the name out in one piece, so he said it again: "Wallaker. You know, Billy's teacher."

Following this was a silence so pure he swore the call had dropped. "You're getting pissed in a pub with Mr Wallaker," she said, more a statement than a question.

"Got pissed. That's right. Well, we hadn't intended on getting pissed. And that brings me back to the favour. I am in _no_ shape to drive."

More silence. "Why are you with Mr Wallaker?"

"We met and we talked."

"You talked about… your nightmares?"

"Yep," he said, mirroring Billy, popping the final p.

"And the doctor," added Wallaker.

"What?" asked Bridget. "What did he say?"

"The doctor," Mark said, as if it were as obvious as anything.

"Mark!" It was clear to him she was losing her patience. "Where _are_ you?"

"Oh, on Baker Street, I think." Mark looked around for the name of the pub and found it. "Yes, on the corner. Down the street from Mr Holmes."

"Right," she said, then sighed. "You're lucky Chloe hasn't gone yet. Give me about twenty minutes. And _no more drinking_."

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Bridget?"

"Yes, Mark," she said in that exasperated tone of voice usually reserved for Mabel.

"I am so, so, _so_ sorry for everything," he said. "And I do love you."

Another stretch of silence before a sniff and a shaky, "I love you too. See you in twenty."

Mark rang off, handed Wallaker his mobile back. "There. Sorted."

"Great," he said; he picked up his pint glass and drained the last of it. "Probably not time for another."

Mark shook his head. "Best not. She could be here in as soon as fifteen, knowing her." Mark reached for his wallet; the time would at least give him time to settle up the bill, and use the men's room. That was if he could manage to stay vertical; he hadn't tried standing yet.

Fortunately, both tasks were a success, and he returned to the table just as the door opened to reveal not just Bridget but Mabel, as well, whose hand she held. His heart swelled with joy to see the both of them. He and Wallaker were relatively easy to find: the man in the expensive dark blue suit with white pinstripes, seated with the man who looked like he'd just come off a running track.

"Mabel insisted upon coming," said Bridget. "I didn't figure on needing to hold you upright—I do hope that you can do so on your own." Mark nodded. "So. Are you all set to go?" she asked; again he nodded.

She then fixed her gaze on her husband's drinking partner. To Mark's great surprise, Bridget smiled; she was not annoyed as he expected she might be, but rather, seemed pleased to see that they'd had a—_Dreaded phrase_, thought Mark—bonding experience. "And you, Mr Wallaker?" Bridget asked. "Do you need driving home?"

"No, it's quite all right," he said. "I'll ring for a taxi."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, grinning. "I'm not going to leave you behind in a pub, plastered. Come on."

"Yes, Mrs Darcy."

"Fantastic. Ooh. One thing." She reached into her handbag, unlocked her mobile, held it up, then snapped a photo (Mark could hear the shutter-release sound). "For posterity," she said with a wicked smile. "Well, then, let's get on the road, shall we?"

As they walked down the street together towards where she'd left the car, Bridget was carrying Mabel, who looked behind at the two men bringing up the rear. Mabel could not stop giggling madly: "Daddy's all _wobbly_!" Mark imagined they looked pretty ridiculous. They were not quite holding on to each other for stability, but it was darn close. "Mr Wolkda's _thilly_!"

"They're both silly, aren't they, Mabel?" Bridget asked, casting a quick glance behind her. "Though I assume there was _some_ serious before the silly."

"Yes," said Mark.

As they arrived to the car, which to his chagrin was practically double-parked, she opened the door with her free hand and asked, "And what was that about a doctor?"

"My doctor, after… serving," Wallaker volunteered. "In fact, a whole clinic devoted to fixing that sort of thing. Or trying."

"Good."

"I'll… email the info when I'm sobered up."

She laughed. "Probably wise. Get in and try not to fall down doing so."

Mabel was buckled into her car seat; Mark sat in the back with her and Wallaker took the passenger seat up front. "All right, Mr Wallaker. Where am I taking you?"

Wallaker gave her an address, but he barely heard it, because his eyes had drifted over to his little girl, who was still looking at him with amusement, even as she held Saliva to her, looking like she might fall off to sleep.

"What, Daddy?" she asked, offering him a drowsy smile.

"Just looking at my princess," Mark said. He couldn't take his eyes from her; her bright, beautiful face, her guileless expression, her reassuringly plump little form… one of his very reasons for living. His reason for life.

Mark recognised he was slipping into a maudlin state just as his head fell back onto the window pane beside him; he woke as the car came to a stop.

"Morning, sleepyhead," quipped Bridget.

He blinked and his mouth was as dry as cotton wool. It took him a moment to realise they had stopped in their own drive.

"You can take yourself into the house, I hope?" she asked. "Looks like Mabel might be down for the count."

He ran his hands over his face; he wasn't quite sober, but he was at least not quite as drunk. "Sorry about this," he murmured.

"Mark, it's okay," she said tenderly. "Unless you don't manage to call Mr Wallaker's doctor tomorrow, in which case, I'm ringing up a divorce attorney." He could tell she was kidding from the tone of her voice, and it made him smile.

"Provided he remembers to email it," Mark said. "Wait, how would he know where to send it?"

"School mail list," she said. "I'll ring him up after dinner and see if he's sobered up. Now that I have his number in my mobile."

Mark pulled himself from the back seat at Bridget dove in from the other side to unbuckle Mabel, who was still clinging to Saliva, her face all hot and sweaty on the side that had been leaning against the car seat. She still looked like a little cherub, even if he knew better to think of her as angelic.

As they entered the house, Bridget ordered him to go splash his face with water then have something to drink—"Again, _water_," Bridget teased—while she went to touch base with Chloe and relieve her of her duty.

"What about my car, my—"

"We'll worry about that later," she said. "Go drink some water."

Mark went to loosen his tie and realised it was already pulled loose; he hated to think how utterly dishevelled he looked, and wondered if it might be possible to go to the en suite to splash himself and somehow avoid the mirror.

As he bent over the sink, he heard, "Hey, Daddy."

Worse than seeing himself feeling like utter hell… Billy seeing him look that way.

"Hey, Billy."

"Are you all right?"

Mark dried his face with a clean towel. "Yes, I'm fine," he said. "Feeling a bit rough."

"You look a little rough," Billy conceded, sounding far older than his seven years. "Was it a nightmare again?"

He set the towel down and turned to his son. "Actually, something a little different, but I've been talking to Mr Wallaker, and he had some really good advice." Mark had barely got his teacher's name out when Billy looked visibly relieved. "Hope that I won't have the nightmares much longer."

He was rewarded for this with one of Billy's brightest smiles. "That's really good, Daddy."

"You bet it's really good," he said, then, fighting to keep himself steady and against his better judgment, he crouched down and picked Billy up for a tight hug. "There's no one I love more in the world than you, your sister and your mum," Mark said, feeling emotional.

"I know, Daddy," Billy said, returning the hug as tightly as his little arms could manage. "We love you, too."

…

They had not hired Chloe for cooking duty (never mind that, according to Chloe herself, she couldn't boil water without burning it), so due to the late hour for starting to cook a meal, while he'd been upstairs, Bridget had decided to order pizza. Mabel got her second wind at the news that pizza was on the way, dancing around excitedly with Saliva flopping about in hand.

"It's not anyone's birthday," Billy said; pizza was, to him, a treat, so he was more than a bit confused.

"It's a special occasion anyway," Bridget said, perching on the arm of the sofa that Mark had sat upon; she then slipped her arm around Mark's shoulders and kissed him on the top of his head. "You feeling better?" she asked, resting her cheek against his hair.

"Yes, I am."

She handed him a tall glass of cold water. "Drink."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oo, while we're waiting, I'll call… well, unless you think he's still too…" Her eyes darted to Billy. She didn't want to say 'Mr Wallaker' and 'hammered' together in the same sentence with Billy there, but Mark knew what she meant all the same.

"No, he's probably fine."

She pulled her mobile out of her jeans pocket, unlocked it, then tapped a few more times. Mark heard someone answer, and her face screwed up.

"Scott? Your name is _Scott_?"

Mark chuckled.

"Imagine that," she continued, rather reminiscent of her mother. "Anyway. I was just calling to remind you to send… yes, the email. Well, I just wanted to make sure you didn't forget. Yes. From being…" Her eyes went to Billy again. "…_that_." A pause. "Yes, yes, that's fine, thanks. By the way… thank you for everything. I mean it. …Oh! Why don't you come for dinner Friday night?" Mark gave the idea the thumbs up. "Unless you've got plans with Sarah…" Her eyes went momentarily wide in alarm; he knew well that she didn't want Sarah tagging along. "Oh. Well, I'm sorry to hear that." As she said it, she grinned. He could only imagine what the sorry/smile combination meant.

At that moment the doorbell went off, sending Mabel into further frenzy. Mark went to stand but she pushed down on his shoulder, silently insisting she'd get it herself. "Have to go; dinner's arrived. Will email you back with our address. All right. Bye."

She touched the screen of her mobile, then said, "Now then. Time for a little pizza nirvana."

As they tucked into their pizza slices, Mark felt a blanket of happiness and security enfold him. He hadn't had a single session with the doctor yet, but somehow he knew it was going to be all right.

"What was that all about?" he asked. "At the end of the phone call?"

Bridget sipped her water, looking confused for a moment until she smiled. "Oh, apparently the attempted reconciliation with Sarah didn't work out. I'm not too broken up for him—she seems a right proper cow." She looked thoughtful. "I just mean that the better I get to know him, the more I realise you were right. He just deserves someone nicer."

She checked her email after they were all stuffed to the gills with dinner and sure enough, an email awaited them there bearing the name of the clinic and the doctor he recommended. "Tell her I sent you," Wallaker had written. "Then again, perhaps not. (Just kidding.) Best of luck, Mark. SW."

In response, Bridget sent him their address and admonished him to let her know if he had any food allergies or dislikes. After she sent it, she looked momentarily dismayed. "It's not a problem, do you think, to have one of Billy's teachers come into the house for dinner as a friend?"

Mark chuckled. "Bit late for that, isn't it?" he asked. "Come on. Let's get the kids to bed so we can go to bed, too. I have more apologies to offer now I'm not half-pissed."

"_Half_-pissed?" she teased.

…

Mark kept his word; the first thing the next morning, after a healthy dose of coffee and Nurofen, he rang up the clinic and, through the good fortune of a prior cancellation, secured an appointment for the day after next. Bridget snuggled up to him, hugging him tight, telling him how proud she was of him. He felt a bit embarrassed, like he was a schoolboy who'd drawn a stick figure and had gotten praised as if it were a Caravaggio, but at the same time felt pleased for her support.

She told him she would be accompanying him Thursday morning. He protested—after all, it was not like she needed to take him as if she were taking the children to the dentist—but she insisted. "I think it's important that I know what's going on, be involved in your care," she said. "Plus, well, what if you're in no state to drive afterwards?"

He conceded the points, though he hoped the latter would not be the case.

The appointment turned out to be more of an initial consultation, questions and conversations to help diagnose and decide on a plan of care. The doctor herself, Katherine Spencer, was a friendly woman a few years younger than himself, auburn hair shot through with grey and twinkling blue eyes. "I am confident we can help you," she said.

He felt immense relief.

They arranged for eight weekly sessions using a light therapy that had shown promising results in other patients. "I wouldn't call what you're experiencing 'severe'," the doctor explained, "but it'll keep the treatment period shorter, and I think this would benefit you the most."

He'd been prepared to do whatever it took, though secretly grateful for only a two-month treatment period.

"My next task seems much worse by comparison," Bridget said as they drove home.

"What's that?"

"Figuring out what to make Mr Wallaker for dinner," she said with a grin.

By the end of the drive they had decided on pasta. "Now to figure out what _kind_ of pasta."

"Let's have Mabel decide," Mark said.

"Brilliant."

"Maybe not," Mark said. "She might pick macaroni cheese with pepperoni."

Mabel turned out to be more sensible than he expected: "Pink pasta!" she said, jumping up into the air and throwing her hands over her head. It was a salmon pasta dish Bridget often made, Mabel loved the taste as much as she loved the colour of it, and Wallaker had not reported back any food allergies or dislikes.

"Why does Mabel get to pick out dinner?" asked Billy, brows furrowed.

Mark said, "You, my boy, can pick out pudding."

At this he grinned. "Butterscotch cake."

Butterscotch cake was what Billy always picked for pudding, so Mark wasn't surprised. It was a good thing they all liked butterscotch cake, and he hoped Wallaker did, too.


	6. Chapter 6: To the Future

**If Only…**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 34,644 in six chapters and an epilogue  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit: See Chapter 1.

(Epilogue still to come.)

* * *

**Chapter 6: …To the Future**

_Early September 2013_

They hadn't told the children who was coming for dinner Friday night because they thought if Billy or Mabel told their friends, it might seem strange to the other children (and possibly smack of favouritism to the children's parents). However, with the special dinner and pudding choices, they knew that someone was coming over, and when the front doorbell went off the two of them flew to the foyer ahead of their father.

When Mark swung the door open, the two of them were speechless at the sight of a teacher.

"Hello, Billy, Mabel," Wallaker said, looking to the two of them, then to Mark with a grin, undoubtedly at the reaction the children were having. "Hello, Mark."

"Come in, Scott."

"Daddy!" said Mabel, confused. "Is Mr Wolkda here to take Billy back to school?"

Wallaker laughed, then crouched down to meet her on her level. "I'm not here to take Billy to school."

"Are you takin' _me_?" she said, aghast.

"No, Mabel, I'm here to have dinner," he said. "Your mother invited me." He then handed her a small bag. "This is for you."

Her blue eyes went as round as saucers. "For me?"

He nodded, then looked to Billy, and held out a second bag. "One for you too. But you must save it for later, both of you."

Billy reached into his bag and pulled out a chocolate bar, huge grin on his face. Billy then asked eagerly, "Do you like butterscotch cake?"

"I happen to love butterscotch cake," Wallaker said, standing upright once again. "Wine for the adults," he said as he handed a larger bag to Mark. "Took a chance, brought a Chianti."

"Thanks," Mark said. "This will be perfect. I think dinner's nearly done, so we can take this down."

Mark was careful to observe Wallaker as they went to the lower level; the children ran down first, holding out their chocolate bars to show their mother. The reaction Mark saw did not surprise him. There was clearly a tenderness on Wallaker's face upon seeing her in her home, in her element. She had only made herself up with simple mascara and a little blusher; she was wearing a simple knee-length dress of cornflower blue; and she'd drawn her hair back into a pony tail when they'd started cooking. She turned away from putting together the finishing touches in order to bend and comment on the chocolate bars, suggesting none-too-subtly that they might want to share with their mother.

"And good evening to you," she said with a warm, sincere smile, meeting Wallaker's gaze as she brought herself to her full height again.

Mark said, "He brought wine for us."

"Oh, thanks."

"My pleasure," Wallaker said, speaking at last, clearing his throat. "Only hope it goes with dinner. I probably should have asked."

"Chianti? I think that'll be fine. What do you think, Mark?" she asked.

"Perfect," Mark repeated.

The children were asked to do their dinnertime tasks—Billy placed the forks to the left of the plates, and Mabel took her plastic tumbler to her place at the table—while Mark opened the bottle of wine and Bridget pulled down three wine glasses.

"Dinner smells wonderful," said Wallaker as Bridget indicated where he should sit.

"It's pink pasta," said Mabel brightly.

"It's a pasta dish with salmon," Bridget explained. "She likes pink. And salmon."

"I got to pick the pudding," said Billy.

"Let me guess," said Wallaker. "Your favourite pudding is butterscotch cake."

Billy's eyes went as wide as his sister's had earlier. "How did you know?" he asked in an awed whisper. Bridget discreetly covered her mouth with her hand to hide the chuckle elicited by this behaviour from her normally sceptical, logical son. Mark smiled too. Wallaker's only answer was to tap his temple and wink knowingly.

Dinner was a smashing success, with many compliments to the chefs and requests for seconds. Mark noticed Wallaker's total engagement with the children during their conversations, how he never talked down to them and always respectfully listened; Mark also noticed that Wallaker's wine intake was at most a glass, and that during lulls in conversation, his gaze went to Bridget.

The whole of the evening served to remind him of their conversation at the pub, of Wallaker's promise never to act on his attraction, and of how very fortunate Mark was, indeed. Wallaker _was_ a good man, he pondered; the sort of man he might have liked Bridget with had he not returned from Sudan…

He then scolded himself for being a bit too morbid on such a pleasant night.

"Mr Wallaker," Billy asked as he tucked into his butterscotch cake with great enthusiasm, "do you have any kids?"

Through Bridget, from a conversation (rather, argument) she'd once had with Wallaker, Mark knew that he had two sons who attended boarding school; at Billy's question the two shared a look. Wallaker glanced to Billy. "I do, actually," he said. "I'm thinking of bringing them to the school in time for the next term."

"Really?" Billy asked. "Cool. Maybe we could have play dates or something."

"They're a little bit older than you are," he said. "They'd be in the Senior Branch. But I wouldn't object to…" He mockingly pulled a face. "…play dates."

Bridget giggled; Mark knew how much she hated that term. "I wouldn't either, to be honest."

"They play Xbox," Billy stated; he assumed everyone did, and wanted to play with him.

"Naturally," Wallaker said with equal coolness.

"Mr Wolkda," began Mabel, continuing only when his attention was turned to her, "why don't you have a girl for me to play with?"

"Sorry, Mabel, just didn't work out that way," he said. "Though if I did have a little girl, I'd want her to be just like you."

Mark swore he saw Bridget's eyes get a bit misty at that comment.

Billy invited Wallaker to play some after-pudding Xbox, but he declined. "It's probably close to your bedtime," he said, "and I should be off. But I thank you for a most excellent dinner and even better company. All of you."

"It was our pleasure," Bridget said. "But please, Mr Wallaker, you don't have to leave just because they have to go to bed. I insist you stay for some coffee, and this cake isn't going to eat itself."

Mark knew Wallaker wouldn't refuse, and Mark was right. "If you insist, Bridget, then I think I must. I mean… Mrs Darcy."

She waved her hand; of course she was not offended at this slip of his tongue. "Pfft, 'Bridget' is fine. Come on, children, off we go."

Mark half-expected Billy and Mabel to put up a fight knowing Wallaker remained behind, but they were surprisingly compliant. Mabel even insisted on giving Wallaker a hug goodnight, surprising him with a peck on the cheek. "Night, Mr Wolkda."

After the three of them disappeared from view up the stairs, Mark went over to set up the cafetière with decaffeinated coffee. "Sorry about that," Wallaker said. "Didn't mean to be… you know. Familiar."

"If it doesn't bother her, it doesn't bother me," Mark said. "But I would probably feel the same in your place, so I do know why you're apologising. Really, it's fine."

Wallaker still looked a bit sheepish. "Glad to hear."

As the coffee began to burble and percolate, Mark said, "I don't think I can ever thank you enough for your invaluable assistance. I shall be forever grateful."

"It was nothing at all," he said. "I'm just pleased I could be of help. Or rather, that _they_ can be of help."

By the time Mark was pouring a black coffee for Wallaker, Bridget returned. "There, they're all sorted," she said.

"Did they give you any trouble?" Mark said, moving on to her mug with milk and sugar.

"Not a bit," she said. "I think they didn't dare with Mr Wallaker here."

"Please, feel free to call me Scott," Wallaker said as he brought his mug away from his lips.

She looked dubious, but agreed. "It's going to feel a bit weird, to be truthful… Scott."

Talking to each other like adults without references to the children at school was a bit weird, too, but they managed to get over it quickly enough. Mark knew Wallaker didn't like to talk about his time in the service, so instead thought about the summer concert, and asked about music.

"I play guitar, and the piano," he said. "It has been a constant creative outlet and a source of solace my whole life."

"Oooh," Bridget said. "Do you write music, too?"

"Actually," he said with a grin, "I have been known to compose a tune or two."

"How _exciting_!" she said, cheeks blooming with colour. "Anything I might know?"

"Probably not," he said. "I've done some collaboration with an old pal of mine, Jake Barton. I think they—he and his band—still play them."

"What's the band name?" she said. "Come on, do tell."

He said the name, not one Mark had ever heard before, but it sparked instant recognition in her. "Oh my God! Shaz and I… we used to see them play in the clubs around town. That song…" She snapped her fingers, trying to summon the name. "Very big around the time we got married, Mark. What was it called? Something about the moon?"

"'Moonlight in Her Eyes'," supplied Wallaker, almost sheepishly.

"Yes, that's it! _So_ lovely," she said. "And to think, here you are, dinner at our house, teaching my son at school. What a world."

_Indeed_, thought Mark.

"So did you ever play the club scene with them?" Bridget continued.

He shook his head. "I didn't think of myself as having much of a stage presence," he said.

"Oh, nonsense!" Bridget said. "You were so good up there on stage with the children."

"Children are one thing," Wallaker mused. "Performing in front of drunk adults is something else altogether."

"I don't know," she said with a grin. "I can think of quite a few similarities between small children and pissed nightclub-goers."

At this he too grinned, then began to laugh. "So enough about picturing me performing on a guitar in front of vomiting twenty-somethings. You and a television crew, and Sit Up Britain. How did you get into all of that?"

Bridget then began to detail exactly how. "Well, it all started when I had to leave my previous job because I'd sha—I mean, slept with my boss," she began, revealing perhaps that she'd had a bit too much wine, and revealing an all-too amused reaction from Wallaker. As she continued, Mark sat and observed the two interacting. As they talked and joked a little, Mark got a true picture of the tangible chemistry that the two of them had together. His thoughts returned to his morbid consideration of earlier, how they might have made a good couple if circumstances had been different.

Mark was just as glad circumstances were not different. He smiled, though, because as morbid as they were, they were only thoughts, and he didn't need to dwell on them at all. He had his wife, his children, his life.

"—kind of a surprise, to be honest," Bridget was saying as he shook himself from his reverie. "We'd spent so long trying for Billy and then boom! Along came Mabel, almost out of the blue."

"What about your sons?" Mark asked. "You said they were old enough for the Senior Branch…"

"Yes," he said. "Matthew and Frederick, after my father and Sarah's."

"Oh, that's lovely," Bridget said. "And their ages?"

"Thirteen—that's Matt, and Fred's eleven," he said, smiling a little, revealing his fatherly pride.

"And do you get to see them often?" she asked. "I couldn't bear the thought of Billy going—well, you know what I mean. I swear I'm not trying to put pressure about the school issue."

Wallaker nodded. "I know. And I get to see them quite often. Every school break."

Mark knew Bridget did not consider this 'quite often' by any standard, but she didn't further comment. "Talking of school, what does Sarah think of the idea of them attending the Senior Branch here?"

To Mark's surprise, Wallaker chuckled. "To be quite honest, she doesn't like it, which makes me want to do it more." Bridget must have registered surprise on her face, too, because he added, "I guess I'm not a complete ogre after all, am I?"

Surely this referred to a conversation—argument?—they'd once had, or at least a comment she'd once made, because he saw her face tint pink with her embarrassment. Mark could not help but say, affecting a scolding tone, "Oh, now Bridget… tell me you didn't."

"Mark, _honestly_," she shot back, which made them both laugh.

Wallaker finished his coffee and set down the mug, which seemed to signal the evening was drawing to a close. "Thank you for an excellent meal," he said, rising to his feet, which Mark and Bridget also did. "I had a very nice time." He offered a smile and it seemed sincere, though maybe a little bit forced.

"It was a pleasure having you here," said Bridget, "and a pleasure getting to know you." Mark opened his mouth to speak but she stopped him. "Not a word. I'm not too proud to admit I was wrong."

The two men shared a chuckle.

Once they had said their goodnights and had seen Wallaker to the door, they went upstairs to turn in for the night. As they prepared for bed—brushing of hair, cleaning of teeth, etc.—Bridget said to Mark, "I'm glad to hear that I might have swayed him to pull his boys out of boarding school."

"Sounds like nothing's definite yet," Mark said, "and how do you know it was your doing?"

"Well, it certainly wasn't that cow of an ex-wife's idea. She would just as soon have them out of sight and out of mind."

"That's not very kind," Mark said.

"I know," Bridget said, pausing long enough to splash her face with water. "But I feel it to be true. I mean, he splits from her for good and shortly after he considers bringing them home. It's got to be connected."

"You're probably right."

"He'd probably have to move to a house, though," she said, patting a soft cotton towel against her dampened skin, then hung the towel back up. "He can't live in that flat with two growing boys. Far too small, no garden…"

Mark furrowed his brows. "How do you…?"

She grinned. "The night I dropped him home, silly, after you two had been sousing it up. There's no way there are three bedrooms in there, judging from the outside."

He did feel silly, and he strode forward to take her in his arms. "Oh."

With a fond tickle on the small of his back, she teased, "You're not jealous, are you?"

"Very funny," he said, taking advantage of their embrace to kiss her, then the paucity of clothing to make her sigh.

"Sometimes it feels like we're twenty years younger," she said later.

"You keep me young," he murmured, then kissed the top of her head as he squeezed her to him.

…

_December 2013_

Mark had always been prone to caution, though in this case he was at least optimistic. Several weeks had passed since he'd had his final appointment with Dr Spencer, and the difference between the start of his treatment, his therapeutic sessions with her, and now was, to use a cliché, like night and day. The darkness in the recesses of his psyche had cleared away, a darkness he'd not even been aware he'd possessed.

Better still, there had been no more nightmares. No more panic attacks.

Yes, he thought he could declare himself healed.

"Mark?"

He looked up, meeting her gaze. She looked concerned, and realised she had good reason: he had tears on his cheek.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, rising to his feet from where he sat at the breakfast nook, holding out his arms to enfold her, then explained what he'd just been thinking. "These are happy tears," he concluded.

He heard her start to cry a little as her embrace tightened. "I am so happy to hear this," she said, but then drew back suddenly. "You're not just saying this. You really are nightmare-free."

"I _really_ am," he said. It was not as if the doubt was unprecedented. "I'm lighter than I have been in years, in spirit."

She placed her hands on his face, studied his features as if seeing them for the first time in years, then leaned forward and kissed him. "I can see it," she said with a smile, eyes still glistening with her own happy tears. "Best news I've had in a while."

"Why ith everyone cryin'?"

They both turned to see Mabel standing there, Saliva in her arm, worry on her tiny face.

"We're happy that Daddy's all better," said Bridget.

"Oh," she said. After a moment's thought, she decided, "It's thilly to cry if you're happy."

"Happy about what?"

Now it was Billy come down for breakfast on this lazy Saturday morning, his own features screwed up as he tried to figure out what was going on. Funny, thought Mark, that his son seemed to have had a little growth spurt while he wasn't looking. Tall for his age, just like his dad had been.

"That your father's all better, Billy," said Bridget, going over to him, slipping an arm around his shoulders. "No more nightmares."

Billy blinked rapidly, then smiled broadly. "That's _awesome_."

Mark held out his hand, and Billy went over for a hug. "Thank you," Mark said, then kissed his boy on the top of his head.

"Thank me? What for?"

"Just for being you," he said.

"Aw, Dad," he said, a bit embarrassed as they drew apart. After a moment's thoughtfulness, Billy asked, "It's a sort of special day, isn't it? A celebration?"

"Yes, it really is."

"I have an idea, then," said Billy with a sly smirk.

"Oh?" Mark had a feeling he knew where this was going.

"Yeah," Billy said. "Can we have pizza for dinner?"

Bridget started laughing. "We have created a monster."

"Ohh, can we? Can we?" begged Mabel, tugging on Bridget's dressing gown.

Bridget shot Mark a glance and a grin, raising a brow to wordlessly say she didn't object if he didn't.

"Sure," said Mark; even if he had objected, he would have been overridden.

To maintain the festive mood, they decided to take the children to a local pizzeria rather than get delivery. As they enjoyed their margherita pizza, Billy and Mabel behaved wonderfully. Only at the end of the night did Mabel began to get a little cranky and whiny, which seemed perfectly reasonable to her mother.

"It is a bit past her bedtime," she reminded, scooping Mabel up; Mabel clung like a koala, sniffling from crying.

Mabel and Billy, sated from pizza, fell asleep during the short drive home. Bridget too started to yawn. He would have been surprised had she not.

"A good night," said Mark.

"Yes," she said. "A _very_ good night." She reached over and rested her hand on his. "I'm proud of you."

"If you hadn't pushed me," he began.

"What the threat of divorce will do to a man," she said with a little chuckle. "We can't forget what we owe to Mr Wal—I mean Scott."

"Indeed," Mark said. "If he hadn't happened upon me that day in Regent's Park…"

"Wait, what? You just said you met; I assumed at the pub. What happened?"

So he told her about the events of the afternoon after he'd had that paralysing panic attack, but omitted the frank admission by Wallaker about his attraction to her. "Wow," she said at the end of it.

"I'm sure I would have eventually returned to the office, returned home…" he began. "But I would probably be in a very different place right now." _A bachelor's flat_, he thought darkly.

She squeezed her and over his. "I owe him more than I thought," she murmured. She took in a deep breath. "Oh, talking of, er, _Scott_… the Christmas holiday's almost upon us. Wonder what he decided about his boys?"

"I haven't heard," he said.

"I'll have to ask on the school run on Monday." She went quiet. "You know, I hate to think of him all on his own."

"Bridget," Mark cautioned; he knew where her train of thought was heading.

"I think he and Jude would be—"

"_No_," he said. "You know I am very fond of Jude, but let's be honest… she's a bit of a basket case. Just don't."

"Hmmph," she said, though he guessed that silently, she agreed.

…

"He's not moving."

This grim-sounding non sequitur greeted Mark as he came into the kitchen on Monday evening to help with the end of dinner preparation; some kind of soup, from the look of it. "Pardon?"

"Scott," she said, sprinkling a bright yellow spice into the pot of broth; turmeric, he thought, because nothing else was that luridly yellow. "The boys are coming to Senior Branch, after all. But he's not moving house. The boys share a second room in the flat when they visit him, anyway, so they're sorted. I never would have guessed."

"As long as they're all comfortable and happy," said Mark. "If it was our influence that helped him make that decision, then I'm even more pleased."

"Apparently Sarah threw a mild tantrum at some supposed loss of stature," she said. "But he didn't back down, asked when she started caring when she was planning gallivanting 'round France with her latest boyfriend for the holidays, anyway. That shut her up."

Mark smiled, though felt sorry for Sarah, for everything she was missing with her children. In the long run, though, if her priorities were that skewed, she was probably not the best influence for them to have in their lives. He slipped his hand along Bridget's waist before embracing her, her back against his chest, and nuzzling into her neck.

"Mark," she said, giggling, as he tightened his embrace.

Bridget, on the other hand… the most perfect mother to his children he ever could have wanted. "I love you," he said quietly.

"I love you too," she said, shaking another spice into the bubbling broth, "but if you burn your arm on the soup pot, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

"A risk I'm willing to take," he said.

…

It didn't seem like a good idea, but Mark could hardly tell her why he felt that way, so he agreed to allow her to invite Wallaker to the modest New Year's Eve party they were throwing at home. "And the boys too, for Billy and Mabel's sake," said Bridget, though he failed to see how Mabel would care either way. "If they're staying with their father for the holiday, that is."

"No objections," said Mark; he actually quite wanted the chance to talk a bit more with the man, let him know how well he'd been doing since the recommended treatment, though he suspected Wallaker would not accept the invitation. He was surprised to hear, then, that Wallaker did in fact accept… for himself and his boys, as well.

"He wavered a bit until I suggested they come for dinner beforehand," she said. "Hope you don't mind. I just thought it would give the children time to play before they all started zonking out."

"Of course I don't mind," Mark said. "Have you told the children yet?"

"Yes," said Bridget, then laughed. "Billy wants pizza."

This made Mark chuckle. "Of course he does."

Mark had feared that perhaps dinner would be a little awkward, but he was wrong. The atmosphere was festive and conversation was plenty, and he swore he hadn't seen Billy overcome with such raucous fits of laughter in ages.

Mark was pleased that Billy and Wallaker's boys got along extremely well; Matt and Fred did not treat Billy like a baby despite being a bit younger than they were. After dinner, as they turned to Xbox, it became clear that Matt and Fred seemed to be fascinated by Mabel; she was an alien creature to them and they humoured her, and allowed her to play with them.

"They don't know any other little girls," Wallaker said, nursing his beer. This made sense to Mark; all-boys boarding school, no sisters, and evidently no female cousins.

"Then I suppose they'll have no idea that she can be a stubborn little demon compared to other little girls," joked Bridget.

"I would be surprised if she were a meek and mild frail flower of femininity," said Mark, "given who her mother is. Not half the demon you were at that age, if I recall."

"Bah." She reached over and playfully swatted at her husband. "I am glad, though, to see them all getting along," Bridget said.

"Me too," said Wallaker. "Would have made for a strained night, otherwise."

This, Mark noticed, was said with a long look at Bridget.

Other guests began to arrive at about nine in the evening, bearing trays of little finger foods for grazing. One by one they arrived: Jude, Tom, Tom's Hungarian-architect boyfriend Arkis, Talitha, Magda and Jeremy, and Giles.

"Oh, Bridget, you haven't changed a bit," said the latter as he arrived, giving Bridget a friendly hug and peck on the cheek. "Still look as gorgeous as you did when I met you."

"You are too kind, Giles," she said, flushing with her embarrassment.

After Mark introduced Giles to Wallaker—as he did so, he couldn't help thinking that there were never two men more dissimilar than they were—Bridget made the introductions to her friends.

"Mr Wallaker—Scott—is a teacher at Billy's school," explained Bridget. "He was a big, big help to us recently. We owe him a lot."

"Very nice to meet you," said Jude; Mark could not help noticing that the women—Magda included—were giving him very appreciative looks.

To Mark's surprise, rather than get drowsy, the children seemed to be invigorated by the energy of the party. "They napped," said Bridget. "They wanted to be able to stay up until midnight."

Billy and Mabel were happy to see their 'aunts' and 'uncles', to introduce their new friends to them. Everyone seemed comfortable and friendly. It soon became very evident to Mark that Bridget was trying very hard to push Jude and Wallaker together. The two of them did seem to hit it of fairly well, animatedly chatting throughout the evening. Jude was evidently attracted to Wallaker, but while Wallaker was by no means rude, Mark did not see much evidence that the reverse was true.

Mark suspected that Jude noticed too, and this was proved to him when, at the end of the evening, after the chime of midnight and the flow of champagne, Jude came to him with an air of concern.

"Mark," she said, "I don't know how to tell you this, but… I think Scott's got a bit of a crush on Bridget."

Mark nodded. "I know."

"You _know_?" Jude was astonished.

"He told me," said Mark. He held up his hand. "He told me he would never actually act on it. I believe him. I think he's an honourable man."

Mark could tell that Jude thought so too. "How can _Bridget_ not see it?" she asked.

Mark smiled. "Think about what you're saying."

Jude smiled too, then laughed a little before growing serious once more. "How can he torture himself in this way, though?"

"It's a question," Mark murmured.

One by one the guests started to wander away once they'd sobered up enough to do so. Wallaker and his drowsy boys were among the last. "I'll help you help them out to your car," Mark said.

"Appreciate it," said Wallaker.

Once the boys were safely in the back, all buckled in and dozing off again in record time, Wallaker turned with an expression that Mark found difficult to read. At last he spoke. "It's been a good night—they've had a great time. Thank you."

"Think nothing of it," Mark said.

"I'd… wanted to talk to you about something," he said unexpectedly, "but it's far too late. We'll chat another day."

"Oh," said Mark, for a lack of anything more to say. "All right. Drive safely."

With that, he got into his car and drove off.

"I am shattered," said Bridget wearily as he came in, holding out her arms for a reassuring cuddle. "The kids are in bed and we're next, I think."

"Yes," he said; he decided not to bring up the strange parting comment of Wallaker's at that moment. "Happy New Year."

…

_1 Jan 2014_

It was dark and the space felt close, but it took Mark a moment to realise that he was in the armoured vehicle again, because everything about the scene was so similar yet very different. There was no sense of danger at all, only peace and calm, like he was only watching a film that he knew ended well.

He glanced over and saw that his driver was Wallaker; he was focused on the road ahead, jaw taut with concentration. He would ask Wallaker where they were going but he had the feeling Wallaker would not answer, or if he did, would just say to pay attention. That the signs were all there, telling of their destination.

Looking out of the windows offered no clues; everything was shrouded in the mists of a thick fog. Mark decided to just be patient. All would be revealed in due time.

The vehicle came to a stop—not that he felt it stop, but rather, he realised suddenly that they were no longer moving—and his door popped open. "Goodbye," said Wallaker in a quiet voice, almost emotional-sounding, though the man rarely sounded emotional in his presence. He did not look at Mark as he departed the vehicle.

It was then that Mark saw where he was: in front of his own house. He turned to ask for an explanation but the vehicle's door slammed shut, and Wallaker sped away.

Mark's eyes opened, not in a panicked instant, but in wonder. It was still dark in the room around him, only the hint of a sunrise to come, and he blinked a few times, drew a few breaths before closing his eyes again to ponder the meaning of this particular dream.

Later, over breakfast, he relayed the dream to Bridget, though left off the end where Wallaker seemed to be leaving for the last time. "Well, it's obvious what this means," she said, sipping her coffee.

He thought so too, but was interested in her opinion so he asked, "Oh? How so?"

"Well, it was Wallaker's recommendation that got you cured of your nightmares."

"PTSD," he corrected.

"You know what I mean," she said. "Symbolic of taking you safely home."

"It's a surprise that Mabel wasn't in there somewhere," he said, though wondered if the end was equally relevant to the tale, a signal of the end of his presence in their lives. His feelings on this were conflicting: he liked the man just as his whole family did, but he also knew the feelings he had for Bridget must have made a friendship with them difficult.

…

_Mid-January 2014_

It was about a fortnight after the party when Mark remembered that Wallaker had wanted to talk to him in private, so he offered on the Friday of that week to do the school run. "Oh," said Bridget. "Okay. Thanks, love."

She probably thought he was just being helpful; she did not ask if there was an ulterior motive. That was just fine by him. He was not sure he would have answered entirely truthfully. He got the sense Wallaker did not want her to know about his chat request.

"Hello," said Mark, as Billy came out of the school accompanied by Wallaker, the latter of whom seemed surprised to see him.

"Hey, Dad," said Billy.

"Billy, can you keep an eye on your sister for a moment?" he asked. Mabel, all done up in her coat, hat, scarf and mittens, could hardly move nimbly enough to get into real trouble.

"Sure."

As soon as Billy went to his sister to take on the very serious task of watching her, Mark said, "I thought I might come by, catch up with you. You'd said you'd had something to talk to me about."

"Ah. Yes." He thrust his hands in his jacket pockets, looking down. "I've decided to accept an offer working with my brother. Consulting. My last day as a teacher here is just before the spring holiday."

Just shy of three months away. Mark was a bit surprised, and said so.

"I've enjoyed the teaching, but it was never meant to be a permanent career."

"In the middle of a school term, though? Why?"

"Mark," he said, raising his gaze, "I think you know why."

Mark did. "I'm sorry," he said at last.

"You hardly have anything to be sorry for," he said. "I've enjoyed our friendship, but it's difficult to have constant contact with…" He trailed off. The words did not need to be said: _a woman I can never have._

"The children will be sad." Mark was thinking 'devastated' but saw no point in saying so. "Billy in particular. But I suppose it's not like you'll be leaving town."

"Actually…" he began. "I am. It—he—is in Scotland."

"What about the boys?" Mark asked, under the impression that they had started in the Senior Branch, though had not actually seen them.

"I decided to keep the boys at their current school through the end of the term. Didn't want to uproot them twice in one school year."

Mark understood.

Wallaker continued: "I can't… move on without distance." He drew in a rapid, deep breath. "Plus I'll enjoy working with my brother."

"What kind of work?" asked Mark, grateful for the change in subject.

"Construction," he said. "Civil engineering is what I trained for in uni. Useful in Afghanistan. Would like to put my knowledge to civilian use."

"Daddy!" Billy's voice shattered their conversation. "Mabel's gonna eat the snow!"

Mark glanced away. "I should probably take them home." Wallaker nodded. "Should I break the news to Bridget?"

Wallaker nodded once more. "Yes, I think she should hear it from you. But the children… not yet. It's not public knowledge yet. I don't want them to tell other children."

"Understood."

"Daddy!" Billy shrieked.

Mark smiled. "Well. Best be off."

"Cheers, Mark."

Mark went over to collect his children, determining that Mabel had not in fact eaten the snow. When he turned back, Wallaker had already disappeared back into the school.

Arriving home, he tried his best to not look dejected and to hide his anxiety, knowing he'd have to give her the unhappy news, but there was no fooling Bridget. Once the children were safely occupied—Mabel with her Sylvanians, and Billy getting a head start on his homework—she took him aside. "What's wrong?" she asked darkly.

There was no avoiding answering. "Scott's leaving teaching to go work with his brother."

"What?!"

He explained some of what Wallaker had told him; that he wouldn't be returning after the spring break and that they were not to say a word to the children.

"But _why_?" she asked, pouting a little. "I though he liked his job."

Mark could only say, "He wants to get back to doing what he's been trained to do."

"What, night raids in Afghanistan?"

"No, Bridget," he said sternly. "Civil engineering."

She pursed her lips. "Sorry," she said. "Didn't mean to sound flippant. I just think Billy will be very disappointed, though the boys will still…" She trailed off when he shook his head. "What? They're leaving the school?"

"They never started, as it turns out," Mark said, then explained what Wallaker had told him about their current school.

She sighed. "I'm glad for him, but… I just… I felt like we were just getting to know him, and now he's going far away."

Mark considered that this was probably the point, but of course did not say so. In a sense, the dream had come true, after all. Wallaker had delivered him safely home, and now he would be speeding off.

…

And Mark was truly home.

As the weeks went by, this fact became ever more apparent, though his desire to cut back his working hours even more to ensure that every evening and weekend was free made Bridget wonder and worry a bit.

"You _love_ your work, though," she said.

"But I love you all more," he explained. "If I have the luxury available to me to be more involved in our family, in raising the children, then I should take advantage of that."

She smirked, but he could tell she was touched very deeply.

Billy took the news of Wallaker's departure from his school, from London to Scotland, with more courage—or at least, a bigger show of courage—than Mark expected. "We can still keep in touch, though, right?" Billy asked, a small blossom of hope.

"Sure!" Bridget said brightly. "We can… send a little going-away present to him and his boys up in the north. And then stay in touch."

Mark was not as optimistic, and unfortunately turned out to be right. After the spring holiday, though, the new sport teacher took over the class, and Billy could do nothing but talk of the man for a fortnight afterward. Bridget and Mabel also seemed caught up in the excitement of the new teacher, and if they ever compared him to the old teacher, they never said so out loud.

It seemed the adage was true; people sometimes came into one's life sometimes for a singular purpose, and just as quickly went out again. Mark would occasionally think fondly of Wallaker, would be forever grateful for his help, but understood the distance he had to keep.

It was a distance with which he had once been familiar.


	7. Epilogue

**If Only…**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 34,644 in six chapters and an epilogue  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Epilogue**

_End of April, 2014_

Six years ago. Well, six years less three months.

This gift of life, given to him by his little girl, his princess.

"There you are, darling," he said as he fixed the last button.

He had been helping her into the red dress with a 'sticky-outy' skirt that she'd wanted to wear for her birthday, despite knowing she would probably have the thing either filthy or in tatters by the end of the day. She was no prim little thing; she liked to climb, question, and explore. She longed for the day where she could try archery, like 'that lady in the fairy tale'; he thought she might have meant Mulan, but he wasn't sure.

He would want her no other way.

"Thanks!" she said then ran off yelling, "Mummy! Do my hair please!" He smiled wistfully; she wanted the pigtails she was so recently fond of wearing, and his skills with hair-brushing and the elastics were apparently not up to snuff, even after all of these years.

He tidied up her room, picking her nightgown up off of the floor and throwing it into the laundry bin, then tossing the toys into the toy box; it was her birthday, after all, and not a day for scolding. This action prompted him to look around her room; the storybooks she loved, the drawings she'd done (often abstract or fantastical) and was so proud of, and even Saliva, who was really starting to show her age.

"How do I look, Daddy?"

Somehow he missed hearing her approach again, and he turned to see her enter the room. With the white tights, the black shoes, and the ponytails, she looked more like a young lady and less like a baby. He was sure that the recent growth spurt, the shedding of some of her puppy fat, contributed to this in his mind. Not that he was in any hurry for her to grow up, but he could just start to see the fuzzy edges of what Future Mabel might look like. He smiled, feeling a bit pensive and emotional. "You look wonderful. The princessiest princess ever to princess."

She smiled broadly, revealing the gap in her lower teeth, reminding him that she had lost her first tooth. It didn't embarrass her to have the gap there; in fact, she'd said she was quite proud to be a real 'big girl' now. "Thanks, Daddy," she said; it occurred to him quite suddenly that the little lisp she'd had since she first started speaking was virtually gone now.

"You know the party isn't for another four hours," he teased.

"I know," she said with a bright smile.

"Try not to get anything on it before the party actually starts."

"Okay," she said. "I'll be careful with de markers." With that, she tore off.

"No running in the house," he called after her with a grin; he noted she still occasionally had trouble with 'the'…

That task completed, he decided to go down to the kitchen, where Bridget was double- and triple-checking the party preparations. He offered as he entered, before she had the chance to speak, "It'll be fine."

"I feel like I've forgotten something major, though," she said.

"The array of barnyard animals?" he asked, which caused her to stop, turn around, look at him, then burst out laughing. He laughed too. These moments, these references to shared history, made his heart swell with joy.

"Billy still upstairs?" she asked, turning to him, seemingly finally satisfied that she had not missed any detail.

"Yes," Mark said. "To the best of my knowledge, still getting dressed. He didn't want any help."

"Speaking of getting dressed… I'd better go."

He stared at her; she already looked perfectly nice in casual trousers and a blouse, all made up, hair tamed into a barrette. He must have looked stupefied, for she continued to speak.

"If you're wearing that—" She pointed to his casual suit and tie. "—and Mabel's decked out in her fancy red dress, then I'll look like a tramp comparatively." She smiled, spying something behind him. "And of course, there's your son."

He turned and to his great surprise, Billy had also chosen a suit and tie like his dad, though the tie was tied rather poorly with the front bit far too short and a sloppy knot, just as one might expect from a seven-and-a-half year old.

"Well," Mark said with a smile. "Don't you look dapper."

Billy beamed a smile right back. "We kind of match, Dad."

It was true; their suits, their ties, were respectively of similar colours and cuts. He was pleased and proud that his intelligent, inquisitive, and kind son chose to emulate him on such a constant basis. "We certainly do."

"Though I kind of messed up the tie," Billy admitted.

"Not a bad go of it for your first solo try," Mark said, crouching down. "Here. Let's fix it."

He untied Billy's attempt, but before beginning again, happened to glance over to where Bridget stood; she wore a smile and looked a bit misty-eyed. He knew she was thinking the same: _our boy is growing up._

Mark looked back to Billy, adjusting the sides of the tie to appropriate lengths.

"Best get upstairs," she said. "Or at least make sure Mabel's not into too much trouble."

"All right," he said. "Now, Billy, let me show you how it's done."

It was not a large party; Mabel's grandparents, some of Bridget's friends, and what felt to Mark like a thousand raucous, energetic, babbling five- and six-year-old children. Despite the burgeoning headache between his brows, he loved every moment of it. The house was echoing with life; not that it was ever lacking life, but the party that day particularly underscored the point.

The gaggle of extra children left after two hours, but the rest stayed for a bit for birthday dinner. Mabel had insisted on pizza. "Of course pizza," Mark had chuckled upon hearing her choice.

As they waited for the massive delivery to arrive, Mark sat on the sofa and had Billy to one side reading a book that Pam had brought for him, and Bridget on the other nursing her glass of wine, with an arm around each one of them. Mabel flitted between her grandmothers, grandfather, those she knew as 'aunts' and 'uncles', delighted in the attention. He looked around the family gathering—for indeed, all present were like family to him: Jude, Tom, Arkis, Talitha, Magda, Jeremy, Constance, and Una, in addition to blood-family Pam, Elaine, and Malcolm—and felt a contentment he hadn't in years.

"Watch me, Granny Pam, Granny Elaine." At this, Mabel began to do somersaults on the thick carpet; Mark was envious of all that energy, undoubtedly contributed to by the cake.

"Mabel," said Pam sternly, "ladies don't do tumbles in dresses. You'll never get a—"

"Mother, do not even say it," said Bridget, then grinned; Mark was shocked, but not really surprised, that Pam would think to start in about boyfriends at Mabel's tender age. "Besides, I did plenty of tumbles in dresses and I think I did just fine." With that she gave Mark a quick wink.

"She may do as many tumbles as she likes," Mark replied. "Tumbles were essential to _our_ courtship, after all."

Before anything more could be said on the subject of tumbles, the front doorbell went off. Mabel and Billy alike launched themselves up from their respective places like excited birds, their glee unmatched as they begged their father to get up and "Get the pizza in! Come on, Dad, _come on_!"

They'd ordered seven pizzas total, and after paying, Mark returned with them to the family room, pretending to stagger under the weight of them all.

"That's a _lot_ of pizza," said Talitha drolly.

"There are no calories in pizza served on a little girl's birthday," stated Bridget flatly. "It's just fact."

"I'm not little," said Mabel with a very familiar pout. "I'm a big girl."

"Of course you are, darling," said Mark in a placating tone.

They all ate to bursting with pizza to spare. Bridget tried to give some to the guests to take home but they all declined. "It's Mabel's pizza, after all," said Tom. "We shouldn't deny it to her."

"Gee, Tom, thanks," came Bridget's sarcasm.

"No calories, after all," said Talitha.

"Breakfast tomorrow," quipped Mark. The children cheered.

And then the computer started to make a weird noise. Billy and Mabel, who both knew instantly what the sound meant, ran over to wake it up, because of course he knew the password, could remember it better than his mum. "What's that infernal racket?" asked Malcolm.

"Skype call," said Mark, then amended, "video call on the computer, over the internet. I'd better go see who it is."

"Mummeee!" called Mabel with a beaming pink face. "It's Auntie Shazzie!"

From the distance of over 5,000 miles and from eight hours in the past came the smiling face of Shazzer, blotchy with the artefacts of the video transmission but looking the picture of health and happiness, surrounded by blue sky as she sat under the porch of her sprawling green back garden. "Mabel, my angel! Happy birthday!"

"Hi, Auntie Shazzie!" she said, bouncing in place where she knelt on the computer chair. "I'm six today!"

"I know you are, and I can hardly believe it!" she said. "Oh, you're such a big, big girl. I want to take you into my arms and squeeze you tight."

"When you gonna visit again?"

"I don't know, love," she said. "When are you going to come see me in sunny California?"

Mabel's mouth dropped open. "I don't know!" she cried. "I can't get a plane by myself!"

The collected group had gathered around, and at this exclamation of Mabel's they all chuckled. Bridget leaned in to smooth Mabel's hair down, glanced to the webcam. "Hi, Shazzer," said Bridget with a smile; he knew Bridget felt glad for her friend's happiness, but sad that she was so far away. "We'll see what we can do soon."

"Good," Shazzer said, "'cause I miss the lot of you like mad."

Billy crowded in, waving to the camera. "Hi Auntie Shaz," he said shyly.

"Oh my _God_," she said. "Look at you! You're looking so grown up. And you're just as handsome as your dad." She spied Mark behind him and winked. "Hi, Mark."

"Hello, Sharon."

"Daddy, her name's Aunt Shazzie," lectured Mabel, which sent the room into giggles again.

"Who's all there?" she said. "Did I interrupt dinner? Oh, I'll never get the hang of the time difference."

"We're all done with dinner," Mark said, then each person in attendance, even Pam and the Darcys, leaned in to say hello. At seeing Constance, Sharon covered her gawping mouth with a hand, declaring it was not possible for this gorgeous, auburn-haired young lady to be the girl who was "just three yesterday."

"We really do live in the future, I don't know," said Pam to Una, who nodded.

As hellos ended, goodbyes began, and the video call ended with tears and promises to talk again soon. The other guests said their farewells to their hosts and to each other, then left; Mark sorted the grandparents and Una into their guest beds (for Mark to shuttle home in the morning) and put away the leftovers while Bridget got the children ready for bed.

They reconvened in the hallway just outside of the children's rooms.

"Any trouble?" Mark asked.

"Not a bit," said Bridget. "Exhaustion from the day, both of them. And you?"

He chuckled, picturing his mother and father throwing a temper tantrum in the manner of Mabel. "None from any of the parental types." He sighed, taking her into his arms. "It was a very good day."

"It was," she said, leaning into him, against him. "Very good. And ohhh, I'm pretty exhausted, too."

He brushed his lips against her cheek, said quietly, "Not… _too_ exhausted, I hope."

She laughed lightly. "Mmm, I think I might be persuaded to find my second wind."

_Now_, thought Mark as he undid the buttons one by one on her blouse, _the day is perfect; everything is perfect_.

_The end._


End file.
